


The Ballad Of The Darkest Days

by GoofyGoldenGirl



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series), Pocket Monsters: Sword & Shield | Pokemon Sword & Shield Versions
Genre: Adventure, Affection, Announcements, Arranged Marriage, Ballads, Betrayal, Character Dynamics, Declarations Of Love, Discoveries, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fear, First Kiss, Flashbacks, French Kissing, Galar-chihou | Galar, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hammerlocke, Heroes & Heroines, History, Illnesses, Investigations, Jousting, Kings & Queens, Kissing, Legends, Love Confessions, Magic, Medical Procedures, Middle Ages, Murder, Mystery, Negotiations, POV Multiple, Poetry, Poison, Pokemon Battle, Politics, Princes & Princesses, Revelations, Romance, Royalty, Secret Plans, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Spells & Enchantments, Suspicions, Swordfighting, The darkest day, Tournaments, Truth, Wakes & Funerals, War, emotional moments, surprise attack, tourney
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:27:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoofyGoldenGirl/pseuds/GoofyGoldenGirl
Summary: It is a song as old as Galar itself: The Ballad of The Darkest Days. Passed down from generation to generation, a tale of how two heroes defeated the most dangerous threat the isle had ever seen and became kings over the region that would be known as Galar. But how much of it is true? Where does the line between legend and history meet and blend? Come and discover the truth. The thrilling, epic tale of the two youths known as Prince Harold and Prince Wynvin.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 10
Kudos: 6





	1. Wynvin

**Author's Note:**

> Twas when the land of Galar fell at the feet  
> Of the Invaders from the Lands of Ice  
> And most foul treachery   
> Did two heroes heed the call  
> One from North, one from South  
> To birth Galar and lead it for all  
> Come hither and hear   
> And remember the saying of old  
> When the skies glow red and the veil of Darkness covers the land  
> Look to the Weald where the Sword and Shield lie for the hero that shall wield them in his hand  
>  _The Ballad Of The Darkest Days Lines 1-10_

#### Hammerlocke 530 CE 

The whinnying of mudsdales pulling King Fergus’ caravan pierced the cold autumn air that hung above the city of Hammerlocke. They came to a halt in front of the Northside gates. The head driver stepped down from the front carriage and opened the door to let King Fergus out. As he headed towards the city guards, the side curtain slid to reveal the faces of the twins Prince Wynvin and Princess Gwendolyn. The wind ruffled through his blond, wavy hair. His blue eyes sparkled as he took in the sight of a city. He gave a hearty laugh and crouched down so his head would not hit the top of the carriage.

“Look at that Gwen! It’s Hammerlocke!” He tapped her on the shoulder with a point.

His sister did not share the same excitement. Her eyes, though the same shade, set on the city with a forlorn stare. Though not as tall as her brother, she sunk down to the wooden railing with a sigh and let her head rest on her chin. Her long, blond hair flowed behind her.

“If it were any other occasion, I’d be happy,” she said.

Wynvin’s expression fell. He placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Gwenie, it’s probably not going to be so bad. He’s not like he’s a stuffy old man, he’s our age. And I bet you anything he’ll be nice,” he tried to console her.

“Nice indeed, that’s what they always say,” Gwendolyn muttered.

Her yamper started to bark.

“Now you two! What are you doing sticking your head out? Stick them back in or you want the Icemen to know we’re here and attack?” Came the sharp cry of Wise Woman Shannon of Cir, magical advisor to the king, and the caretaker of the twins since their mother died when they were seven.

Gwendolyn’s yamper rushed back and forth on the carriage floor. She leaned down to pick him up. The pokemon quieted and brushed its head against Gwendolyn’s arm.

“See? Even Tord doesn’t want to be here,” she said.

“Don’t speak of such nonsense. Tord is as happy as a yamper can be! Change of scenery I suppose, something that all men and pokemon need from time to time,” Wise Woman Shannon said in an upbeat tone. 

The carriage lurched. Tord the yamper yapped. Wynvin stumbled. And Gwendolyn held her yamper close while clutching onto Shannon’s arm as she watched Wynvin crash to the ground.

“Wyn!” She exclaimed, worried. 

“I’m fine! I’m fine! Don’t worry about me!” he got up and sat back down.

“You ought to be more careful of your surroundings boy,” Shannon said with a sigh. 

Wynvin dared not peek out again. He kept his eyes forward at the swishing curtain in front of them as the carriage moved into Hammerlocke. From what he felt, he came to the conclusion that Hammerlocke was a city of narrow streets with uneven cobblestones. There were sharp turns at every corner. The wheels of the carriage squeaked and hissed as they rode over jagged edges. Nearly sent its passengers flying forward as it came to a sudden halt.

“First order of business I will see to when the two kingdoms unite are to get the roads in this blasted city fixed!” Shannon exclaimed.

The carriage came to a final halt. The curtains parted and the head driver held his hand out.

“We are here your majesties.”

Wynvin stepped down. He dusted off the front of his leggings and looked out.

“Did you know that this is the biggest castle in all the isle? They say that it was built by the gods to be their fortress for when they came down to our world? Then during the war against the giants, they housed all the people within the area here and decided that it would be better use to us mortals. And still even though war after war has been waged, Hammerlocke still stands,” he said. 

“Unless the Icemen get us and we all die,” Gwendolyn said in a dour tone.

“Gwendolyn,” Shannon let out another sigh. She then turned forward. “My lord, King Fergus.”

King Fergus, as tall as his son but sturdy in build, approached his advisor and children. His robes were of the colors of the North: navy and white, and upon his mane of red hair sat the royal crown of gold and pearl that was reserved for the highest of occasions. The ends of his thick, beefy mustache appeared to dance against the gust of cold air that passed by. Even though his father had been wearing this outfit all day, Wynvin thought it odd to see his father dressed so elegantly. Fergus was a man of simple pleasures. He cared not for lavish decorations, precious minerals and jewels, and fine clothing. True value, he told his children, was to be found inside one’s self through strength and discipline and he lived by his word. He lived by example and set it for all of his court. Fine things were saved for occasions such as celebrations and holy days, not for everyday use when the kingdom was threatened and people starved. 

Wynvin appreciated his father’s view of the world, but wished he had something special to boast about. A glittering gold ring, a set of clothes made from silk from the east and lined with albino thievul fur, a book written in the finest of calligraphy and filled with illustrations. He knew Gwendolyn also agreed with him. They were in the prime of their youth, and what material things besides the memories they kept would they have to remember it by?

Fergus stepped forward with a nod to acknowledge them.

“We are to greet Roland and his wife and son by the castle stairs,” he informed them. 

“Aye my lord,” Shannon bowed her head.

“Now?” Gwendolyn clutched the sides of her skirts. She avoided looking directly at her father.

“They are anxious to meet you dear daughter,” a hint of a smile turned up the sides of Fergus’ mustache. “And you too my son. You would make a great friend for Harold in these trying times.”

Fergus held out his arm to Gwendolyn. She took it and they started forward. Wynvin, Shannon, and Trod at their heels followed.

A horn’s fanfare sounded.

“His Majesty King Fergus of the Northern Kingdom and Prince Wynvin and Princess Gwendolyn, accompanied by Royal Advisor Shannon of Cir.” 

The onlookers surrounding them, both soldiers and civilians alike, bent down on their knees. The horn sounded again.

“And His Majesties King Roland and Queen Eleanor of the Southern Kingdom and Prince Harold, accompanied by the Royal Mage Aldred.”

Roland and Eleanor stepped forward, clad in robes of green and gold of the South and crowns of gold and emerald. They stood as majestic as a king and queen should be, but Wynvin noticed the sorrow that lined Queen Eleanor’s face. Though the robes hid her thin frame, her frailty was written through the sharpness of her cheekbones and a glimpse of her hand as Fergus took it in his grasp for a kiss. 

“Shannon. Queen Eleanor does not look well,” he remarked.

“That is what happens when the Icemen rob you of three sons. Her poor majesty,” Shannon’s tone softened with a glance over at her. 

A screech against the cobblestones nearly made everyone in the Northern party startle. The end of a staff could be seen and then the Mage Aldred. He stood tall and stately, with his silvery-blonde hair pulled back into a ponyta-tail. Unlike his king and queen and the rest of their party, he was clad in a robes of royal purple, similar to the color of his eyes that glanced over Fergus and Gwendolyn with an intrigued look. He curtly bowed his head.

“King Fergus. Princess Gwendolyn. Why, you are the splitting image of your mother,” he addressed Gwendolyn.

“How unbecoming of him to approach without the majesty’s word,” Shannon said under her breath.

“Thank you Sir Aldred. Everyone tells me I have her beauty as does my brother,” Gwendolyn replied.

“Come forth,” Fergus called out to Wynvin and Shannon. “My son Wynvin, and my Advisor Shannon of Cir.”

Wynvin knelt on one knee and bowed his head towards King Roland. Then did the same for Queen Eleanor and took her hand to kiss it. Her knuckles stuck out as sharp as daggers against his lips.

“This is a great day for our kingdoms,” Wynvin told the royals.

“Tis indeed,” Queen Eleanor said solemnly. 

“A day that our people will remember for centuries to come,” King Roland’s naturally loud voice boomed across the courtyard. “Come Harold, and set your eyes on your future bride.”

Wynvin took a few steps forward to stand next to his sister. He watched Roland and Eleanor step aside. A figure behind them grew closer. He stepped forward and Wynvin felt as if the world around him had stopped moving. The blue of his eyes melted, lips loosened, then quivered, and his heart beat faster than it ever had before.

Harold stood before them, tall and slender. His brown eyes were filled with mirth and the cold air wafting past made the flush of his cheeks pop out against the pallor of his smooth skin. The rays of the late autumn sun adorned his head with a heavenly glow. Locks of deep chestnut brown bounced as he swept into a bow and kissed Gwendolyn’s hand, and Wynvin felt the hand by his side twitch as if it yearned for the feel of Harold’s lips upon it. 

“My Lady Gwendolyn. I promise to treat you well,” Harold told her.

“It is a pleasure to meet you My Lord,” Gwendolyn kept her tone calm and composed.

Then Harold arose. He greeted King Fergus, then stopped as he turned towards Wynvin. His eyes washed over with surprise and warmth as he looked upon Wynvin’s face. The flush in his cheeks deepened and the two young men were lost in each other’s gaze.

Then Wynvin’s knees gave into the deepest bow his body ever lowered him into. He beseechingly looked up at Harold.

“My Prince. It is good to meet you at last.”

Harold extended his hand out. He grabbed onto Wynvin’s hand that rested on his knee and helped him up. Those looking on at the scene wore perplexed expressions. Not letting go of Wynvin’s hand, he stared into his eyes once more.

“It is also good to meet you as well Prince Wynvin.”

Their hands broke apart. Wynvin looked on, and his lips sparked with a desire to lean down, grab Harold’s hand, and kiss it.


	2. Gwendolyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was so that the Kings hath agreed  
> That with the union of Princess Gwendolyn Fairest of The North  
> And The South’s Prince Harold the Young  
> The new Kingdom of Galar shall triumph   
> Over the Disease of the Ice Lands’ Frost   
> _The Ballad Of The Darkest Days Lines 15-21_

Gwendolyn flinched as Shannon’s pudgy fingers yanked at her hair to gather it together. With one hand holding the ponyta-tail upright, she grabbed the comb and began to pull through the split-ends and knots in her hair. Gwendolyn squirmed.

“I keep telling you Gwenie dear, if you would take time to comb your hair in the morning as you get ready for your day the tangles wouldn’t be this bad,” Shannon chided her.

“Brushing works for me,” Gwendolyn kept her eyes on the mirror that she held in her hand.

Shannon tied the top of Gwendolyn’s hair with a piece of string. She then moved towards the tail, and began to weave it into a braid. 

“Who will remind you of these things when you have a kingdom and a castle of your own to run?” 

“My lady-in waiting I suppose,” Gwendolyn replied.

“But she wouldn’t be as diligent as me.”

“As diligent as only a mother could be,” Gwendolyn said. 

As she braided the last part, Shannon paused to let Gwendolyn’s hair rest in her hand. Her expression softened and she lowered her head to kiss Gwendolyn’s hair.

“My hands were the ones that pulled you and your brother into the world,” she started, fingers tracing the ridges of the braid. “I watched as you both grew from babes in arms to children. Stumbling and wobbling about, yet determined to succeed as you took your first steps towards your mother and father to chasing after my boy Brannon in the castle halls.”

“The game where we’d be the heroes and he’d be the monster! He’d always run slower to let me and Wyn catch him,” Gwendolyn smiled as she remembered.

“As a good older lad should,” Shannon nodded. “And when the seizing sickness took your mother and the unborn child in her, it was more than just my duty to raise you two. I love you as I love my own Brannon. I take pride in how you’ve grown and how I guided you and Wynvin through your life so far. But now, as my son made his way in the world, you shall leave the rookidee nest and fly yourself Gwendolyn. And I will miss having to remind you to comb your hair!”

Shannon sniffed and raised her hand to wipe away a tear. Gwendolyn turned around and set the mirror down on the table. She arose and pulled Shannon into a hug.

“Oh Shannon! Auntie Shannon, you know you can come and visit whenever you’d like and remind me then, figuring that the marriage doesn’t test my patience, free spirit, and will to live,” although her tone was lighthearted, it soured slightly upon mentioning her engagement.

She stepped back and picked up the pair of trousers lying on the bed. She pulled them up and tucked her shirt in. She reached for the mirror again. Her expression hardened. Shannon crossed over and placed a hand on her shoulder. 

“Now, now Gwendolyn, don’t look so glum. Marriage isn’t a trap as they say it to be. I will let you in on a little secret that has served past kings and queens well. Once you have born Harold an heir, you will be free to seek out any lover you’d like. There are potions you can take that ensures that you will not conceive, and that your court will not suspect you of being unfaithful.” 

Still holding the mirror, Gwendolyn looked back at Shannon. 

“It’s not the question of marrying. I know _everyone_ marries eventually, but it’s the question of _when._ I don’t want to marry _now._ I don’t want to waste the best years of my youth tied down to a responsibility I know I can’t handle. Ruling a kingdom that some do not want to see created, promising myself to a man I hardly know, the prospect of raising children, it _frightens_ me Auntie. I’m not _ready.”_

Gwendolyn set the mirror down. She quickly moved towards the foot of the bed and grabbed her boots.

“I must hurry. If I miss training, Father will be furious.”

______________________________________________________ 

The caws of King Fergus’ corviknight sounded in between the clashes of Fergus’ and Gwendolyn’s swords. She jumped back then swung her arm upwards to block his blow. With a _ho!_ , Fergus slid back into a defensive stance and gave a hearty laugh. 

“Excellent! You are improving my dear girl!”

On the sidelines,Tord the yamper barked in approval and Shannon clapped. Gwendolyn rushed forward to find that she had been blocked again. A few more clashes, then Gwendolyn found a weak spot. Her foot shot out to touch her father’s ankle and she pointed the tip of her blade at the center of his chest.

“Ha!” She exclaimed. 

The swords were drawn back into their scabbards. Gwendolyn held her hand out towards Fergus and took it into a tight clasp.

“Very well fought,” her father said.

He stepped back and glanced over at the sidelines. Puzzled, he turned towards Shannon.

“Where’s Wynvin? It’s his turn!” He shouted.

Shannon shook her head.

“Oh you know that boy My Lord. He’s got his heads in the clouds, probably forgot that we were meeting here. I shall go fetch him,” Shannon spoke casually in front of the king due to the fact that the three of them were alone with no outsiders present.

She bowed her head and turned towards the opposite direction. As soon as she gained enough distance from the king, she quickened her pace. Gwendolyn couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of Shannon’s bobbing figure, the way her skirts ballooned out as she hiked them up to allow her to run. Her shouts echoed across the courtyard.

“ _Wynvin!_ Where are you child? Have you let the impidimps tangle your locks and pull at your head while you sleep? Your father is waiting for you!” Was followed by a phrase or two in her mother tongue.

Fergus watched Shannon depart before looking over at his daughter. 

“Shall we continue with our training?” He asked in a regal tone, though the glint in his eyes suggested that he too found the scene to be quite amusing. 

“Tord! Come here boy!” Gwendolyn called out to her yamper. With an excited bark, he scurried over and leapt in front of Gwendolyn.

“Corviknight! At my call!” Fergus shouted. 

His Corviknight flew over. It spread its wings as far out as it could and gave an intimidating caw at the yamper. Father and daughter faced each other.

“When I gaze upon thine eyes,” he started.

“A battle tis in order!” A fire lit in Gwendolyn’s blue eyes. Her hand made a fist and her arm jutted in front of her to prove her might.

“Your Majesty? My Lady?”

Prince Harold stood on the sidelines. Fergus and Gwendolyn abruptly turned. They resumed a neutral stance and Gwendolyn called Tord back to her side. Corviknight flew back behind Fergus.

“Good morning Prince Harold,” Fergus greeted him.

“I apologize if I have interrupted your battle,” Harold said.

“No need boy. We are just sparring to pass the time as we wait for Prince Wynvin. Come join us.”

Prince Harold did so and took Gwendolyn’s hand.

“My dear Lady Gwendolyn. How radiant you look today like,” he gazed upward at the overcast sky. “The sun,” his words came out stilted. 

“I look like the sun even when donning my training clothes?” She asked as if to challenge him.

Harold spoke before Fergus could chastise her.

“My sincerest apologies again. I would have liked to seen your skill in battle with both pokemon and sword Lady Gwendolyn. From looking on at your stance when you faced your father, you look like you would make a fierce opponent indeed,” his words came out more naturally.

“Thank you. My father taught me well,” Gwendolyn said.

“Both of my children are natural leaders in the art of battle,” Fergus boasted. “While it is not good manners to face off against your betrothed, why not fight in the tourney against Wynvin? He is as strong as my Gwendolyn though he fights differently than she. You see, Gwendolyn is skilled in the ways of attack. Though she comes off as hot headed in her movements, she examines your moves, predicts and calculates when to strike. And Wynvin, though just as hot headed in his attacks, his true strength shines in holding and determining defense. He is quick on his feet with a shield when the blow seems eminent, and can find every hidden gap and weakness in his opponent’s range. Speaking of which, I must go and search for him. Excuse me.”

There was an awkward silence in the moments after King Fergus departed. Harold and Gwendolyn stood side by side with their gaze out at the courtyard.

“It is a shame,” Gwendolyn spoke at last. “From what little time I spent with you, we could have been friends in another life.”

She glanced over to see Harold’s pensive expression.

“We could still be friends,” he finally said. “They say that it helps in a marriage if the two parties get along.”

“We cannot navigate a marriage by simply _getting along._ There are other factors to consider,” Gwendolyn coldly said. “I cannot imagine myself being lost in your embrace, in your kiss, and in the act that we will carry out on our wedding night. Surely you boys from the South do know what transpires during the wedding night and after for nights to come?” Gwendolyn asked.

“Of course I do, and it also _repulses_ me to imagine myself in that position with you,” Harold answered. 

“ _Good._ And if it is of any more consolation, I doubt I’ll ever fall in love with you,” Gwendolyn added.

Harold nodded at her words. With the truth lingering in the air, it was then that Harold and Gwendolyn could look at each other in the eye.

“If a miracle doesn’t happen and the wedding isn't called off. How will we stand it?” She asked.

“My older brother Ronnie. Bless his soul,” Harold gazed up at the sky before looking back at her. “Told me that you’re supposed to imagine someone who strikes your fancy whilst in the act of passion with your spouse.” 

“That is most unfortunate for me for no one strikes my fancy at present,” Gwendolyn said.

“Then I am in luck,” Harold said.

“Good for you. Whomever she is, I imagine she would swoon knowing that you think of her.”

King Fergus strode in with Shannon tugging at Wynvin’s ear in tow. Upon noticing Prince Harold’s presence, she let go of him and resumed a graceful pose. Wynvin sheepishly rubbed the side of his head, then waved at Harold and Gwendolyn.

Harold’s straight lip turned up into a smile. His cheeks dimpled and warmth shone in his eyes as he eagerly lifted his hand to wave back at Wynvin. 

“Yes, I suppose lucky indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Professor Sonia’s Note**  
>  It is speculated that the seizing sickness mentioned in Source B’s version that Queen Eilwen had during her pregnancy was eclampsia.
> 
> **A Note From The Author**  
>  I imagine Gwendolyn to look like a mix between Florence Pugh and Emilia Clarke.


	3. Harold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These devils from the Lands Of Ice  
> A-roaring, fierce, with a lust for blood  
> Set their eyes on the virgin isle of Galar as their prize   
> Like beasts they ravaged, assailed and plun’d (plundered)  
> Burnt’, gutt’d, a-slaved(enslaved)   
> As the bodies a-piled(piled up) and armies a-fell  
> The North and South both afflict’d twas in need of aid   
> _The Ballad Of The Darkest Day Lines 22-28_

“Mother?” Harold whispered softly.

Queen Eleanor did not respond. Her hollow, hazel eyes kept its stare out the window that faced the bailey. Workers pulling carts full of goods and produce entered the yard from the outer gates. Castle servants hurried to and fro from different areas of the castle. A shepherd and his flock of wooloo passed by, catching the attention of a group of children at play amid the hustle and bustle of the bailey. They stopped their game and ran to catch up with the wooloo. The air then filled with excited shouts to touch, how pretty, to look, pet, please, and the sharp _no_ of the shepherd. Disappointed, but still eager to play, children regrouped at their spot. Joyous laughter rang as they took hands and spun around while chanting a rhyme. 

“Look at them play. So happy and unaware of life’s hardships. I thought to when you and your brothers were young,” she said in a flat tone. 

“Aye. I have wonderful memories of those days,” Harold said with a nod of his head.

Queen Eleanor did not smile. The creases that lined her eyes thickened.

“You were just like those little ones. Frolicking about the castle in search of amusement that awaited you at every corner. Where did those days go? Why must innocent lambs be led to the butcher of the battlefield? _Why_ did the gods take away my Roland, John and Stephen before their time?”

Bluish veins popped out against her paper thin skin as her hand curled against the stone cold wall. With a wail, she slid to the ground. Harold knelt down beside his mother and embraced her.

“Oh Mother,” his lips pressed against the top of her head, hair of ashen brown that was beginning to gray. “Not a day goes by that I think of my brothers. I miss them as dearly as you.”

Even though her hands and body shook, Harold was surprised at how strong the grip of her hands was on his shoulders. Eleanor cried out again. Harold lashed about within her arms.

“I can’t lose you Harold! I can’t lose you too!”

“Mother! I promise you won’t lose me! I won’t leave you and father!” Harold’s voice rose into a desperate shout. 

The chamber door swung open with a crash. King Roland rushed in.

“Eleanor!” He swooped in by her side and took her from her son’s arms. “Eleanor please stop crying! My wife, I beg you! It pains me to see you like this! _Please?_ ”

Eleanor’s fists pounded against Roland’s chest. 

“Why! Why did my sons have to die? Why! Why! **Why!** ”

King Roland shut his eyes. His body tensed with each blow before Eleanor sunk. His hand cradled her face before pulling her into his chest. He looked up at his son.

“Go fetch Aldred for a calming potion.”

The stone castle walls and the thick bedroom chamber door were not sound enough to drown out Eleanor’s screams entirely. Harold’s skin prickled as the door closed behind him. He blinked and raised his arm to cover his eyes.

“Why am I still **alive?** Why won’t you let me **die?** ”

His vision blurry and wet, Harold sniffed. With an exhale, he lowered his arm and held his head high. A step forward and a sudden collision with a body and a barrier that was long, hard, and wooden had him stumbling backwards.

“Lord Aldred. Pardon my step,” he apologized. “Your presence couldn’t be more timely. My mother requires your assistance.”

Aldred stood before Harold with his aegislash floating behind him. He tilted his head to glance at the chamber. 

“So I hear,” he replied in a cool tone. “I do not have enough ingredients for a potion, but I will do my best to break her out of her fit.”

Harold watched the door slam shut behind Aldred and his aegislash. A shrill panicked cry was followed by Roland’s feeble reassurance. There came a new round of screams and Aldred’s steady, powerful command. A flash of purple light illuminated the door crack and then, silence. 

Aldred and aegislash reappeared. The door hardly squeaked as it closed shut.

“It is taken care of,” he informed Harold. “Aegislash, come.” 

The pokemon moved in front of its master. It assumed a defensive stance with a clicking sound as it and Aldred walked off in the same manner as they had arrived.

__________________________________________________ 

All who were present in the council room rose to their feet as Kings Roland and Fergus entered. They took their respective places around the table: Roland next to his son Harold, and advisor Aldred, and Fergus next to his children Wynvin and Gwendolyn and advisor Shannon. The guards standing outside closed the door. Roland cleared his throat.

“Queen Eleanor will not be able to join us. Any talk of war grieves her so.” 

The morning’s event still fresh in his mind, Harold nodded. He glanced over to King Fergus’ side of the table. As always, Fergus sat regally with a stoic expression that moved from King Roland to the map of the isle lying in front of him. Next to him his advisor, Shannon, to Harold’s surprise was dressed in ceremonial robes of navy blue and white and her light brown hair speckled with gray had been elegantly pulled up into an eldegoss bun. And the twins: Gwendolyn, who had assumed the position her father took though her eyes were cast nervously at the shape of the isle and the continent below, and Wynvin, lovely Wynvin! Wynvin whose serious look down at the map, then over at his father to show his readiness made Harold’s heart beat so. Whose hair had been so carefully combed back to highlight the features of his face. Who wore a loose, flowing, deep pink shirt that was laced together in the front. Their eyes met, and Wynvin’s eyes glowed underneath the candlelight with a flutter. Harold grinned, lost in the stare, until the nudge of his father brought him back to the severity of the meeting.

“You may talk to Gwendolyn later,” Roland sternly told him. 

The heavy clang of the Hammer of Justice against the table signaled the council’s commence. Aldred held his hand up to conjure a scroll from thin air. He opened it and gave it a quick glance before addressing the room. 

“The forces on the Southern coast reported that the Icemen assailed the town of Hulbery. There was no warning of their movements, and despite the efforts to evacuate the townsfolk, the barbarians reached port. The Commander wrote that by sundown, blood flooded the streets. The bodies of men and pokemon alike lay everywhere, so maimed that their mothers wouldn’t recognize them. The cries of the captured led to the boats to face a life of enslaved misery echoed everywhere. The marketplace was looted and torched. The monastery robbed of its finest treasures and minds. No survivors. And as for the manor of Lord Hulbery, it managed to fight off the barbarians but lost half of its defenses.”

The war’s brutality with the accounts of past attacks, and of the battles that claimed his three older brothers had desensitized Harold. No detail, no matter how gruesome could shock him, but he always felt a twinge of sorrow in his heart for the victims in war’s bloody wake. He wished he could ride into battle on the back of his rillaboom Greenleaf and charge against the barbarians and slaughter them all in revenge for his fallen brothers and kingdom, but his father would not allow it. The family needed a legacy, and Harold was the only child left. 

Wynvin and Gwendolyn were not disturbed by such graphic detail. _They too, must have been witness to councils in the North like this one. But they do not wear the expression of one who has known the causalities of war personally like I do,_ Harold thought.

It was Fergus and Shannon who wore those expressions. Fergus who like King Roland, rode into battle, and Shannon, Harold remembered, had a son fighting in the Northern army. 

“How many men are stationed at Turffield at present?” King Roland asked.

“About a thousand My Lord,” Aldred said. 

“Then,” King Roland took a battle piece that lay beside the map and moved it onto where Hulbery was marked. “We must order five hundred to march to Hulbery. An order shall be posted to the villages and towns between Turffield and Hulbery that all able men of good health shall join or face execution.”

“But Sire, if Hulbery is at risk of another attack, shouldn’t we order all thousand to march?” Aldred asked.

“We cannot be too certain. The Icemen have not attempted to attack us from the west but it would not surprise me if they found a route around the isles that avoids them being spotted by our forces. They’ve always had the advantage on the seas.”

“I can lend you five hundred of my own men,” King Fergus said. “My army currently patrols the Northern coast and reinforcements can be called from our fortress at Cir. That way you will not have to worry about arming civilians and enforcing punishments that would take up too much time.”

“That is gracious of you King Fergus but I think we will not need Northern troops for this,” Aldred said.

“Aldred,” King Roland held up a hand. “I understand your concern about the South’s image, but remember that in time we will join with the North to form a new, stronger kingdom. We must learn to cooperate with the North as they are learning to cooperate with us.”

Wise Woman Shannon of Cir raised her hand. With a wave of her hand she produced a scroll of her own.

“There are a thousand five hundred men in total and five hundred are stationed at Cir,” she said after reading.

“Thus we send five hundred effective immediately,” Fergus affirmed. “Shannon do take that down.”

Shannon flipped over the scroll and reached for a quill. She wrote and then rolled the scroll back up to send it off which she did with another wave of her hand.

“And with that settled we shall focus our attention to the more important mater. Our attack on the Ice Lands in the spring.”

Shannon raised her hand.

“Sires if I may,” she started. “Like My Lord said, we cannot underestimate the Icemen. Their lands are covered in frost three quarters of the year. Icy seas and snowfall will not deter them. If they launch a surprise attack during the winter—“

Aldred condescendingly let out a sharp exhale. 

“What idiot would order their army to attack during the winter? If they tried that it would be a suicide mission.”

“She has a point. The Icemen have more advanced methods to combat against the forces of winter weather than we do. Fortifying the coasts would be a good countermeasure in case they show,” King Roland spoke before Fergus could interject. 

Aldred glared at Roland before becoming silent once more. 

“Aye,” Fergus nodded. 

Harold felt as if something that had been said earlier was not clear, but couldn’t recall what it was. With a glance about the room, he cleared his throat and opened his mouth to speak.

“Now son, do not feel pressured to enter these dangerous waters,” King Roland interrupted him. “You will have all the time in the world once you are king to make the call of life or death. Take this moment listening in on our discussions as a learning experience. You are young, and you must not burden yourself with the mistakes of your elders.”

So Harold, still racking his head, kept quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Professor Sonia’s Notes**  
>  The “Ice Lands” mentioned both in the ballad and in contemporary literature of the time period refer to the present day regions of —— and ——. Due to overcrowding in their kingdoms and inheritance laws that favored the eldest sons, many young men took to the seas to find fortune in trade or in war. 
> 
> **A Note From The Author**  
>  The Icemen and Ice Lands draw inspiration from the vikings who originated from the Northern European present day countries of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden. The vikings, who gained fame in popular culture with a reputation of being fierce warriors, did at one point invade and rule parts of the island that became Great Britain.


	4. Wynvin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the two princes, fast friends   
> Impressed by the other’s courage and strength   
> Vowed that their bond shall never sever ’til life’s end   
> So taken was Young Harold by Wynvin   
> That he gifted him the mightiest of dragons, a duraludon   
> _The Ballad Of The Darkest Days Lines 36-40_

The sun’s golden rays brought out the intensity of the orange and red of the leaves in the grove of apple trees that lay in the Hammerlocke Hills. Beneath one of those trees sat the two princes shoulder to shoulder, empty burlap sacks, and one full of apples at their side, laughing heartedly at a joke Prince Wynvin had told.

“Wyn! Has anyone told you how funny you are?” Harold exclaimed.

“Often with the threat to make me the fool at the next feast’s entertainment and a groan from my Auntie Shannon,” Wynvin lightly replied.

He reached for the sack. Paring knife in hand, he held up an apple and started to peel it. Harold intently watched as the apple skin uncoiled from the fruit into ribbons that spiraled into the grass.

“You have been a great friend to me,” Harold said. “After the death of my brothers, there was no more laughter or merriment at Hall. With all the gloom hanging in the air, my father’s vow of revenge, and my mother’s despair, I feared in my darkest moment that I would forget how to genuinely smile. Coming here and meeting you reminded me that there is more to life than this war. I—” Harold reached out and touched Wynvin’s face. “Hope that our bond will last a lifetime.”

The paring knife in Wynvin’s hand settled down in the grass. The apple in his hand rolled onto his lap as he pressed his cheek against the palm of Harold’s hand. He gazed, touched into Harold’s soulful eyes, before his reached out to take Harold’s hand.

“That is also my greatest wish my dear Harold,” he lifted Harold’s hand to his lips and kissed it. His lips lingered against his soft skin before pulling away.

A quiet meow came from the grass next to Wynvin. He glanced down to see his espurr climb up on his leg.

“Ah! How are you Missy? How are you girl?” one hand took hold of the apple, and the other reached to pet the top of her head. 

She let out a contented meow before continuing her journey over Wynvin’s lap. Upon touching down on the grass again, she curiously pawed at Harold’s leg. She sniffed his hand that lay beside him, then after a moment of contemplation, nuzzled her head against his hand with a purr. Harold reached down and gave her a pet.

Wynvin let out a “ha!”

“She likes you!” He eagerly remarked. “I’m surprised. She’s a shy little thing who scampers when meeting strange people and pokemon and prefers only my company. It took months for her to get used to Tord and my father’s corviknight.” 

Harold continued to pet Missy’s head. He grinned over at Wynvin. 

“Maybe I’ve got charm? A spell that draws all creatures to my side and makes them feel as if they’ve known me forever?” He suggested. 

“You most certainly do for stealing her heart and mine,” Wynvin cut off a piece of apple and popped it into Harold’s mouth. His cheeks dimpled as he chewed, lips puckered out, as fleshy as the fruit in his mouth. He swallowed, then slid in closer and lowered himself to rest his head on Wynvin’s lap. 

Missy meowed and refocused her attention on the sack of apples. Wynvin looked on her struggle against the sack before gazing down at Harold. His fingers lowered to run through strands of his chestnut-brown hair. They nested into a rub with slow strokes, and an occasional twirl for a strand that stuck out.

Harold gazed up at Wynvin.

“How many pies you think they are making for the Autumn Tourney?” He asked.

Wynvin looked over at the sack of apples that Missy clawed against then to the empty sacks waiting to be filled. 

“I suspect enough to feed all of Hammerlocke throughout the winter,” he said.

______________________________________________________________________________ 

The trumpets blared as Kings Fergus and Roland announced the start of the tourney. The spectators in the stands burst into cheers and applause. Wynvin, sitting beside Harold and Gwendolyn in the royal box stuck two fingers into his mouth to let out a high-pitched whistle. Both Harold and Gwendolyn laughed. Gwendolyn’s cheeks puffed up and flushed red. The start of a guffaw rumbled in her throat before a sudden shift upright in posture and a dignified clap followed. Wynvin turned his head to see his father, King Roland, and Shannon approach the box. 

“After you My Liege.”

King Roland headed up to sit next to his wife. Queen Eleanor, bundled against the elements of sunshine and a cool breeze with a veil over her face and a long black cloak over her gown, had an empty stare out at the melee battle between the Northern and Southern teams. She sharply sniffed as to express her displeasure. Shannon followed and sat next to the seat where King Fergus would sit. A glance over at her and Wynvin turned towards Harold and Gwendolyn.

“At least she’s not wearing that eldegoss bun to block the best of the matches,” he whispered with a chuckle.

Harold and Gwendolyn were trying hard to maintain their composure. Fergus at last, walked in. A look over at Gwendolyn and Harold and the ends of Fergus’ mustache appeared to dance as a twinkle sparkled in his eye.

“Ah! Now that’s a sight I like to see!” Fergus’ voice boomed. “Such high spirits! You see Gwendolyn, you only needed time to warm up to Young Harold.”

Gwendolyn smiled at her father. A gaze so perfectly crafted, Wynvin noticed, that only he could tell that her smile was a smirk from the way the corners of her mouth briefly twitched. Her ruse indeed worked well for the stoic Fergus let his guard down and clapped Harold’s shoulder before joining Shannon. She turned back towards her betrothed and her twin brother.

“You know, I don’t have the heart on whom to decide should win the royal pokemon battle later,” Gwendolyn said.

“Obviously sister choose me,” Wynvin leaned in. “Missy may deceive others with her adoring gaze and sweet charms, but you know the true strength that lies within her.”

“Or,” Harold also leaned in. “You could choose to back your husband to be and his rillaboom Greenleaf. The strongest of all apes, still unmatched in battle for two years straight.”

Gwendolyn turned towards Harold.

“And who have you been battling? Wee ones?” She said in a snarky tone.

Wynvin let out throaty laugh with a point.

“As _Wyn_ is in my name I shall be the victor!” He boasted.

Harold shot him a cheeky grin.

“We shall see _Wynvin,_ ” he winked at him before they turned their attention back to the match.

From then the royals did not converse, save for when Aldred appeared from his duties with an apology to King Roland and Queen Eleanor for his absence on not seeing the opening ceremony. The Northern Team emerged the final victor of the melee much to Wynvin’s delight. The jousting segment began, with the best riders from the North and South to compete against each other.

It was some time later when one of the officials approached the box to inform Harold and Wynvin to prepare for the pokemon battle match. The knights below started into a charge.

“Cheer for me Gwenie! Father! Auntie Shan!” Wynvin dramatically called out.

Gwendolyn burst out laughing. Shannon sharply turned with a mortified expression on her face.

“My Lord Prince,” she started in a calm tone that hissed underneath. “How many times do I have to tell you? We are in public. You cannot—“

A horrified shriek erupted about the stands. Wynvin turned back to see that the Southern knight’s lance had been plunged deep into Northern knight’s armor by his stomach and that the tip protruded from the back. The Southern knight yanked his mudsdale’s reins with one hand to come to a halt. His other arm limply dangled by his side, hand still curled as if clutching the lance. Blood splattered onto the dirt. The Northern knight’s rapidash stumbled backwards with a deafening whine. It rose onto his hindquarters and bucked the knight towards the opposite arena wall where his body crashed into it with a sickening thud.

Harold’s face had gone pale. Gwendolyn clasped her hands over her mouth with a gasp. 

“By the Gods!” King Roland shouted with a jump to his feet.

Queen Eleanor fainted. 

“This is impossible! All the lances are supposed to be _blunted!_ ” King Fergus exclaimed.

“How dreadful!” Came Shannon’s voice as she climbed over to attend to Queen Eleanor.

Aldred was already by her side. He propped her up into his arms and faced Roland. 

“I will see to her Sire,” Aldred lifted Eleanor from the ground. He adjusted his position and began to descend down the box stairs.

“I never thought a man with a build thin as his’ would be that strong,” King Fergus remarked.

The rapidash wildly galloped around the ring with a group of men in tow, ropes out to restrain it. The pokemon kicked and thrashed all who drew near. The Southern knight, still on his mudsdale was frozen into place until a shout and the approach of hooves made him turn his mudsdale and retreat to the safety of the walls. Two men knelt beside the body of the Northern knight. His body seized as they lifted him up. His screams racked the arena.

“Oh Gods, he’s still alive,” Wynvin didn’t know whether to feel horrified or relieved.

“He won’t live long,” Shannon’s voice came from behind. “When they take the lance out, he’ll bleed to death.”

The official made his presence known again. 

“Come along now My Lords,” he told Harold and Wynvin.

A chill overcame Wynvin as he glanced over to the arena again. The rapidash had been forced to the ground, its hooves tied together as the men began to drag it by the reins back to the stables. Its horn scratched against the dirt, breaking off into tiny bits, leaving a trail of blood near the browning patch where its rider had been stabbed.

_______________________________________ 

A new bout of fanfare filled the arena. With a tilt of his crown, Wynvin looked up to see the stretch of sand ahead and the sides of the stands. His hand spun, foot stepped out, and the crowd roared. 

“Presenting The North’s own Prince Wynvin of Davon Hall and his espurr.”

Missy kept close by Wynvin’s heel. As he gazed towards the royal box, he saw his father, Gwendolyn, and Shannon vigorously applauding him. 

“Huzzah! Huzzah!” He could hear Gwendolyn cheer as he approached the center of the ring.

In from the opposite end strode Harold. He had widened his stance to match the intimidating figure of his rillaboom following him. The crowds cheered and he clapped his hands with a stomp of his foot to imitate a rillaboom war call. 

“Presenting The South’s own Prince Harold of Leistershire Hall and his rillaboom!”

Harold diverted from his path to approach the royal box. Gwendolyn waited in the front row just in front of the railing where he got down on one knee and kissed her outstretched hand.

“For your honor My Lady!” He vowed.

The crowd went wild. He rose to his feet and produced a rose from the inside of his robe. Gwendolyn took it and held it close to her heart to play along with the theatrics. Harold turned back towards the center of the arena and Wynvin caught a glimpse of Gwendolyn ripping off the rose from its stem and nesting it behind the ear of a happily barking Tord. 

The two princes and their pokemon met in the center. The pokemon stepped forth and their partners turned to walk towards their respective places. 

“On the mark!” The official overseeing the battle shouted.

A horn’s call sounded. Wynvin seized up Harold and his rillaboom before looking down at Missy. The rillaboom in its build and size posed a grave threat to the delicate espurr and Wynvin had never seen the gorilla battle before. A quick decision had to be made.

“Missy! Call upon ye psychic powers and draw a screen of light!” He dramatically exclaimed.

A rainbow barrier materialized and vanished before her. Greenleaf the rillaboom looked back at Harold.

“Greenleaf! Bulk up ye strength and roar!” Harold shouted.

Greenleaf flexed his muscles. His hands moved towards his chest. He rapidly beat his fists against his chest with a series of shrieks. The crowd supporting The South chanted along in time. 

“Charge forth!” Harold pointed.

Greenleaf took off into a sprint.

“Dodge Missy!” Wynvin yelled.

She jumped high in the air. Her body somersaulted over Greenleaf’s head. Once she had reached the right height, Wynvin ordered: 

“Swiftly now!”

Missy’s arms shot back. Sunlight sparked in her eyes as she conjured forth the stars that shot from her paws. They assailed Greenleaf’s head. He swatted about to bat them away, but they were not deterred from his target. Missy landed on her feet and the Northern crowd whooped.

“So this is how you fight!” Harold was impressed. 

“Aye! And I see that you’re one for a match!” Wynvin cockily replied. 

Harold grinned with a huff.

“Very well! We are only just getting started! Greenleaf! Beat ye drum!”

The rillaboom pulled off the drum that it carried on its back. It took out two branches and held them high.

“Protect!” Wynvin shouted.

The clash of the drum bounced off of Missy’s shield. The whole arena shook and Wynvin’s foot skidded back into the dirt.

“Ha! We will not back down! Missy! Swiftly again!”

The battle raged on. Wynvin and Missy held their ground through attack after attack. His voice hoarse, knees stiff, and with sweat on his brow, Wynvin kept his eyes peeled on the rillaboom’s stance and the commands his partner gave. The bells from Hammerlocke Bell Tower tolled to signal that the hour had passed. The crowd in the stands teetered at the edge of their seats, heads tilting back and forth as the pokemon fought. Dusk began to creep over the arena. The officials huddled amongst themselves, whispering in low voices as they gazed out at the battle then towards the direction where which Hammerlocke Bell Tower lay.

Raw, unbridled energy coursed through Wynvin’s veins. His hands were shaking as he looked towards the shadow of the setting sun that made the dirt shine beneath them and that shrouded Greenleaf and Harold. He made a fist, head tilted back, and he ordered for the move that he had concealed from his opponent. 

“Shock of psyche!” 

Harold reached out to command:

“Storm of leaves!” 

A flash of pink light mixed with swirling leaves engulfed the arena. The crowd leapt back as a violent gust blew their way. Wynvin slid, kicking up more dust as his hands dug into the ground to steady himself. The light flickered, the leaves fell then disappeared to reveal that both Missy and Greenleaf had fainted.

Wynvin was up on his feet. He rushed towards Missy who let out a dizzying squeak as he picked her up and held her close. The official overseeing the match raised his arm.

“Both pokemon are unable to battle! Princes Harold and Wynvin are _tied!_ ”

The spectators burst into surprised cheers. As Wynvin handed Missy over to another official, he looked up to see that Harold had started towards the center of the ring. They met and Wynvin extended his arm. They clasped each other’s forearms.

“You fought bravely and _beautifully,”_ Wynvin stared into Harold’s eyes.

“It was a battle that I will never forget and that I will _cherish_ in my heart for years to come,” Harold responded.

They let go.

“Kiss of peace.”

As was custom for royalty and the highest of nobility that dueled in tourneys, Wynvin drew in to kiss Harold on both cheeks. They felt hot and damp against his lips. Harold’s lips pressed hard, as if savoring the feel of Wynvin’s skin like if he would never kiss his cheek again. 

They both turned around. Heart pounding and cheeks burning, Wynvin felt as if the whole world around him had vanished as he exited the arena in a daze.

__________________________________________________________________________ 

The upbeat tempo of the music flowing from the Great Hall reverberated throughout the courtyard. Wynvin stood by the arch door. He breathed in the cool night air and let out a refreshed exhale. He continued his stroll into the courtyard, further away from the feasting in Hammerlocke Castle. While young Wynvin, enamored with the activities of festivals and feasts: the singing, dancing, games, plays, and feasting, there was a more pressing matter on his mind that he could not ignore. Harold had not joined the celebration, stating that he needed to check in on his mother. Though as devoted as Harold was to his mother, his need for a welcome change and merriment was too great for him to stay by her side for this long, and King Roland had not been notified of any alarming conditions his wife would present with. So Wynvin ventured out, hoping to find him but not sure of where. 

Dim lights from the lanterns inside the castle and from those hanging above in the courtyard trees lit the way. Wynvin walked about the path, past the bare bushes that once bloomed with summer’s most precious flowers, the trees whose colors could faintly be discerned from the candlelight, and the shed where the laborers kept their tools. A most curious noise sounded and Wynvin stopped in his tracks. 

“Who goes there?” Wynvin asked. 

The door pushed open and Wynvin burst into a grin as he caught sight of Harold’s sweet face.

“Wyn!”

“Harold where have you been? You’re missed at the feast!” Wynvin stepped forward.

The glow from the hanging lanterns made the beads of sweat on Harold’s shine. Something of a mixture of both excitement and nerves racked his face as he stopped in front of Wynvin and took his hand.

_“Wynvin,”_ he said softly. “Ever since the moment I laid my eyes on your face my heart has fluttered like it never had before. The beauty of your form, the grace which you carry yourself with, the mirth that sparkles in your eyes, the and the kindness and understanding you have shown me, and your strength in battle have swept me off of my feet. And though I am betrothed to your sister and am expected to do my duty, I cannot hide these feelings any longer. I _love_ you Wynvin.”

Before Wynvin could respond, Harold let go of his hand and darted back into the shed. He returned with an applin in his arms.

“Oh Harold!” Wynvin placed a hand over his heart.

He then reached out to receive the applin. The apple-dragon cooed and snuggled up against the crook of his arms. Wynvin tickled the top of its head then gazed back, lovestruck at Harold.

“Oh Harold! You have made me the happiest man alive. I love you too!”

Holding the applin in one arm, Wynvin reached over to cup Harold’s face. Their foreheads touched. A strand of golden hair brushed against Harold’s eyebrow. Wynvin’s chest gave a flutter as he gazed, closer than he ever had before into the brightness in Harold’s eyes that held his heart and soul.

“Be my lover?” Harold whispered.

Wynvin felt the heat of the lantern lights as he leaned in with a tilt of his head. Harold’s breath tingled against his lips. They trembled before parting to answer:

“Always and forever.”

The flutter of Harold’s eyelids was the last thing Wynvin saw before closing his eyes. Their lips met. The feel of Harold’s kiss was soft and light. Filled with a warmth that radiated out and weighed down the side of Harold head firmly against the support of Wynvin’s hand. Wynvin’s lips slid across Harold’s. They broke off and he opened his eyes. His hand traced against the angle of Harold’s cheekbone.

“I have never kissed anyone before,” Harold admitted.

“Neither have I,” Wynvin whispered.

Wynvin became aware of the applin squirming in his arms. He set it down onto the ground then turned his attention back to Harold. They put their arms around each other in a close embrace. The lantern closest to them swung, spreading its light evenly over their faces.

“Kiss me again?” Harold asked.

Wynvin’s hands sturdied themselves on Harold’s back as the force of his pull drew them in together again. Their lips collided into an affirming kiss that deepened as the lantern’s light above flickered then faded.


	5. Eleanor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was upon winter’s first breath  
> As the sun rose on the snow in the morn  
> Did Hammerlocke discover a most terrible tragedy  
>  _The Ballad Of The Darkest Days lines 45-48_

**NOTE:** This chapter contains triggering content. Reader discretion advised. 

Eleanor’s body slumped as her hand gripped the doorknob. A dull pain flared in her wrist as the knob turned. The door creaked open. Her arm dropped by her side and she started into a shuffling gait down the castle hall. She could not find the strength to go back and close the door. All the energy that she had spent getting up and out of bed and properly dressed now all concentrated in her legs to keep her upright and moving until she reached her destination. Where if she succeeded and did not fall prey to the cursed whisperings of her inner demons, she’d receive a potion that would calm her nerves and quash the temptation to fling herself out of every window she passed until they resurfaced.

She had walked too fast. Her whole body ached 

“Aldred?” She frantically called out. “It’s Eleanor. I need a potion! A spell! Anything!”

There was no answer from the other side. Her fist rose and rapped again. 

“Aldred! It is urgent! I thought of the deed again. It called out to me like a siren’s song. If I hadn’t come I—“

The crash of a bang echoed throughout the corridor. Her knuckles, once a ghostly pale, were now raw and bloodied. 

“Aldred I am desperate! _Please!_ You alone know of the demons that haunt me and I cannot let my husband know! I talk of death but know deep down that I cannot _face_ it head on! Help me! I am _scared!_ ”

In a panic, Eleanor flung herself at the door.

“ **Aldred!** ”

A sudden pull forward had her stumbling about. Fearing she’d fall, she placed her hand on the door.

“Aldred?” 

The door opened with a squeak. Eleanor’s hand shot up and clenched on her opposite arm as if to shield herself. She nervously glanced back, then took a tentative step inside. This time, the door closed.

All the curtains in Aldred’s quarters had been drawn, shrouding the room in total darkness. Accustomed to the lack of light due to the days spent lounging about her chamber in grief, Eleanor had no trouble crossing the room to the nearest window. She pulled the curtain back to let enough light shine through so she could see properly.

The chambermaids must have passed prior for the bed was made and the floor was free from dust. On the table on the opposite end of the room lay a book and a stack of scrolls with a quill propped on the top sheet of parchment. Next to the bed stood the wardrobe, similar in height to the one in the bedchamber she and Roland shared except it was less ornate.

“How hard can it be to make a potion? All you need to do are follow the instructions,” She wondered out loud.

She reached out for the wardrobe’s handle. As her hand touched it, she felt a sudden chill overcome her. Her body tensed again and her arms rose to huddle herself. Frost formed on the windowpane despite that the weather outside, though cold, had not began to drop down to winter temperatures. Eleanor shivered. Her hand gripped the knob. It turned and the skin on the back of her neck _prickled._

The wardrobe swung open. Eleanor’s head looked up at the assortment of robes that hung down to the large chest that lay close to her feet. She knelt down and pulled it out, surprised by how light it was.

“They must be in here,” she said as her fingers pried the chest open.

There came a click. Her hands gripped the edges and her body leaned in. Disappointment crossed her face then puzzlement. Her hands fell to her sides then up and into the box towards her right. Weight now bore her hands down. Clutching at the hilt, Eleanor eased the lance up and out of the box. It sunk down onto her knees.

“What is this doing here and not in the armory?”

Her hand rocked, in need of support. It slid to the side, revealing the stripes of green and gold that wove around the hilt.

“Green and gold. These are Southern colors.”

The crook of her arm flexed. Her hands shook, and the lance threatened to fall to the floor with a clatter. 

“No! No! This—“

Her eyes darted up to the lance’s blade. Its tip jutted out at a point, with a rust like residue instead of a brownish-red was a smudged _black._

The lance fell. Eleanor scampered back and clutched at the sides of her head.

“Oh Gods,” she said horrified. “That’s—“

Her hands moved to cover her mouth. Hot tears surged up and out of her eyes. Fear had taken her words away and were instead replaced by whimpers that she stifled with her hand.

Footsteps. Eleanor raised her hand. She quickly crawled back to the chest and forced the lance back inside. Chest closed, she shoved it back in, then got to her feet to close the wardrobe. She hurried out the room, slammed the door behind her, and turned back towards the direction of her bedchamber. A sudden dizziness overcame her and she stumbled.

“My Lady.”

Familiar, thin hands shot out to catch her. Eleanor, although she recognized the voice, did not turn to face the figure behind her.

“Aldred,” her voice shook.

“My Lady are you alright?” He asked.

Her lip quivered.

“Ye-no. I feel faint.”

Aldred’s hands slowly maneuvered her to turn. His cool, violet eyes glanced her over as he looked for signs of illness. Supporting her by the waist with one hand, he raised the other to her forehead.

“Fear not My Lady I will get you a potion. Come to my chambers, you need to lie down.”

Eleanor shivered as they turned to face the door. She glanced behind her. The corridor was empty with no one in sight.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

Her body moved slow, her mind was racing, but Eleanor felt that she would have enough energy to spare to attend the council meeting. Roland informed her that meeting’s subject would focus on foreign trade outside of the isle. Though she was comforted to know that she wouldn’t relive the brutality of her sons’ deaths and of many more sons of grieving parents across the isle, Aldred’s expected appearance filled her with dread. She doubted that her efforts to conceal her presence in his chambers the other day did not go overlooked. Aldred was the South’s most powerful mage; in her eyes the most intelligent man in the isle. He surely had cast a spell or enchanted a vessel to guard his room and report back to him. He _must_ have known she had stepped foot inside and discovered the lance in the chest. And though she desperately wanted to believe that Roland had given the order for Aldred to study the lance to prevent such a tragedy from happening again, the worst of possibilities screeched out at her from the back of her head.

The council room was empty except for her husband, King Fergus, and Hammerlocke castle’s main healer.

“My Eleanor. I did not expect you to come so early,” Roland was surprised.

“I wanted to assure that I would be on time. King Fergus. Sir,” she greeted the Northern king and the healer.

“Perhaps we should resume this discussion elsewhere,” King Fergus proposed.

“Do not mind me King Fergus. Continue,” she said.

The two kings turned back towards the healer.

“As I was saying Your Majesties, we did all we could to make the poor lad’s last hours comfortable. He was in a most horrid agony, I shall not spare ye the details in front of The Lady,” the healer glanced over at Eleanor, then back at the kings. “But a curious thing happened when we pulled out the lance after his death. His blood had turned black.”

_Black_

Eleanor’s hand shot towards the nearest chair. Roland rushed over and helped her sit.

“My apologies My Lady for disturbing ye. Shall I fetch ye something to drink?” The healer asked.

The sharp tip of the lance glittered in Eleanor’s mind.

“That would be very kind of you,” she said.

The healer faced the kings before leaving the room.

“It was the worst case of gangrene I had even lain my eyes upon. May the poor boy’s soul rest in peace with the gods. The family arrived today to claim the body. They told me to let ye sires know.”

“Tell them of my condolences and deepest sorrow for the loss of a knight so young,” King Fergus said.

“And of mine for it was The South’s blade that caused this terrible accident,” King Roland added. He placed his hand on Eleanor’s shoulder in a consoling gesture.

The healer left. Time barley passed before King Fergus’ wise woman, Aldred, important officials from the port cities, and the royal children shuffled in.

“Mother!” Harold was pleasantly surprised.

He stepped from Gwendolyn’s side out to her. Aldred slid his staff to the side to let the prince pass. Eleanor sat up with a start. As she reached out to embrace her son, she swore that Aldred’s hand gripped the top of his staff. The coolness of his violet eyes had become glaringly hot, and while he was not a man known to express feelings of any kind, the corners of his mouth stretched flat as if he were frowning.

Harold pulled back from his mother’s arms. Concern, a look that he gave her so often nowadays that she didn’t twice of it, crossed his face. He placed a hand on her cheek.

“Mother what’s wrong? It looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Eleanor blinked and avoided Aldred’s stare.

“I am fine my son. I am tired, and think the council will exhaust my delicate sensibilities. I am afraid I must leave.”

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The skeletal frame of the trees loomed over the bailey. A withered, brown leaf fell from a branch. It curled against the force pulling it down and landed against the veil that Queen Eleanor wore. So light was the leaf’s landing that she did not feel it. She continued on with her walk, taking slow steps so she wouldn’t tire.

Fresh air, the countless healers who’d seen her in the past told her, would help with her disposition. It would cool the melancholy that had a hold of her heart and restore the humors to their natural balance. But they weren’t the reasons for Eleanor’s need for a change of scenery. The unnatural chill that she found in Aldred’s room had pursued her. It traveled to and fro upon the shadows. No warmth from the castle’s stone walls and of the fireplaces that burned brightly could extinguish the freeze that permeated through. The shadows, darker than the black of a night sky, would rise. They coiled like wisps of smoke, with a wine-red glow that reminded Eleanor of tales of the houndooms of hell. And she, petrified, swore that the shadow shrieked and caught a glimpse of a most monstrous face that bore its teeth.

November’s skies were gray but in the open there was little chance for shadows to dwell. Eleanor adjusted her cloak. She passed the stables that held the mudsdales and rapidashes, the bolted fence that led to the meadows where the wooloo grazed, and coop that held the messenger pidoves. They did not capture her interest. Once, in a time of peace, surrounded by her court, husband, and children, her walks had been lively occasions. She would have stopped to see every sight, tower, pokemon, flower, and tree. Laughed as her confidants informed her of the latest news and gossip that went around the court. Approached the laborers and asked in her curiosity of the tasks they attended to and how they fared. Perhaps in the mid morning or mid afternoon, either alone or with company, would sit in the garden with a tea in hand and take in the beauty of her surroundings. But like the chill of winter’s air, Eleanor felt hardened. As much as she tried, she could not conjure the warmth and joy she used to feel. In her sorrow, she felt numb to the point where her heart no longer felt like it sunk but it had disappeared, leaving her hollow.

The squeals of the swinubs in the pigpen pierced at her ears. Her hands shot up to cover them, then head turned towards the pigpen. The pigsty keeper emptied a bucket of slop over the fence into the feeding trough. About five swinubs crawled over and began to eat.

“Come un now eat up! Ya bedder hurry before its all gone an’ da oder little bastards beat ya ta it!” The pigsty keeper called out to the other swinubs at the far end of the pen in his thick Northern accent of the common folk.

He turned around to see Eleanor. The bucket fell with a clatter and with a dust of his hands against his tunic, he bowed.

“Good Day Milady!” Eleanor could tell that he did not know that she was the Queen of the Southern Kingdom. Without her crown and jewels, and the thickness of her cloak that concealed her royal dress, she passed as any other noblewomen.

Queen Eleanor was just as startled by his reaction as he was to her presence. Yet with all the energy she could muster, she stood tall and queenly. She removed the veil that hid her face and addressed the pigsty keeper in a firm but gentle tone.

“At ease good fellow.”

Another dusting of his hands and they went to smooth back his hair before clasping in front of him.

“Ah pa’don me Milady, I didn’t ‘pect any of de noblefolk ta visit. Erm, would ye like ta see me pigs?”

With a nod of her head, Eleanor approached the pigpen. The swinubs gobbling down their meal had eyes on nothing else. The ends of their furry coats wagged and they squealed in between bites. The other swinubs in the pen feebly lay on the dusty ground. The brown of their coats was dull, dirtied, and did no good to hide their emancipated frame underneath. They shook, letting out weak whines that could hardly be heard over the din of the healthier members of their sounder. 

“Oh dear,” Eleanor said.

The pigsty keeper picked up another bucket full of slop. He moved over to the sick swinubs and filled their feeding trough. 

“No-thing ta trouble ye ‘bout Milady. Dey’s tummies a bit upset. A touch of herbs in der slop an’ dey’ll be squealin’ good as new.”

Even though the food was right next to them, the sick swinubs did not even move an inch to eat. The healthy swinubs, still ravenously hungry, rushed over.

“Oi! Dose ain’t fa ye!” The pigsty keeper reached for a pitchfork lying against the pigpen fence.

The sick swinub that was the farthest from the bunch mewed. Its eyes were sunken, head lay in a tarry black pool that stained its cheeks. One of the healthier swinubs approached the sick swinub with a snort. It sniffed the black liquid then lowered its head to lick it.

“Don’t eat dat! Filthy little thing!” The pigsty keeper prodded the swinub with the end of his pitchfork to shoo it away. He turned back to her. “Sorry for de sight Milady, pig pokemon will eat anything.”

She nodded. Her hands crossed over her arms with a shiver with a glance back at the castle.

“It was good to look upon your pigs good fellow. Perhaps I shall pay them another visit in the future.”

The pigsty keeper let out a sound of overjoyed shock. His eyes twinkled and his body swooped down into a kneel.

“Milady dat will be an honor! May da Gods bless ye Milady,” he bowed his head.

“Until then and farewell good fellow,” Eleanor turned.

“If I may speak Milady? Whose honor may I thank?” The pigsty keeper asked.

Eleanor looked back at him and the pen.

“The Lady Eleanor of Faighte Hall,” she used her maiden title. 

As she reached the place where the side bailey gates led to the streets of Hammerlocke, two familiar voices flitted about her ears. She looked up to see her son Harold and Prince Wynvin enter the gate hand in hand. Harold tugged at Wynvin, with the same excitement and manner as he used to as a small boy when he’d lead his brothers or friends about. There was a grand smile across his face that Eleanor had not seen in ages. Wynvin said something. Harold smiled again, and Eleanor felt a jolt of emotion within her heart.

_My Harold has found a friend_

The thought, clear in her mind, made her call out to him. The two princes glanced up. She knew that her presence was a surprising sight. Their hands quickly slid apart and Harold started briskly towards her with Wynvin in tow. 

_Oh dear I hope he isn’t concerned that I am alone without someone to watch me_

Harold came to a halt in front of her. To her surprise, he wore a nervous look, like the one he and his brothers used to wear as boys when they were caught doing something wrong.

“Mother! I did not expect you to be out and about!” He took her hand.

“The castle air was too stifling. I needed fresh air so I walked about the bailey. Though I daresay it’s getting too cold to be outside.”

Wynvin stepped forth and took her other hand into a kiss.

“My Lady Queen. We were walking too. About the city,” Wynvin’s words came out stilted.

They stepped back. Queen Eleanor glanced at the redness across Harold and Wynvin’s noses and cheeks. To the way their hair had been ruffled despite there being no wind blowing in Hammerlocke, and at the dirt smudged on their boots. She placed her hands on her hips.

“I do believe you have been walking but not on the city streets,” she started. 

Harold and Wynvin nervously shifted in place. For a moment, Eleanor saw flashes of her three elder sons as boys where Harold stood. The downcast eyes of Little Ronnie after having lost his father’s sword, the guilt of the Mischievous John after pulling a prank in the courtyard, the quiver of the lip of Sweet Stephen after being caught nibbling on a honey cake in the kitchens, all accumulated in the expression of the youngest, Harold, as he was caught in a lie.

“You were in The Wild hunting pokemon weren’t you?”

Confusion, then relief washed over the two princes’ faces.

“Yes! We were hunting for pokemon,” Harold clapped his hands together. 

“Though hunting isn’t my style, I prefer capture,” Wynvin piped up.

Eleanor felt the corner of her lips turn up. She let out a breathy sound that almost was like a chuckle.

“Next time before you cause your father to worry. And yours too,” she included Wynvin. “Ask for their permission before going off. You may be of age but these are _dangerous_ times.”

The two princes nodded.

“Yes My Lady.”

“Yes Mother.”

Eleanor reached out for Harold. Her frail hand cradled his cheek and gave it a pat.

“I promise I won’t tell them where you have been now. But promise me you will in the future.”

“I will,” Harold said.

Eleanor leaned in and kissed his cheek.

“Now go on before they notice your absence.”

The two princes started towards the castle As they passed her, Eleanor heard Harold hum as he placed his hand on Wynvin’s back to let him go forward. It was a song that Eleanor loved once. One that she learned as a young girl while she played with her sisters. That she would hum as she’d go about her day in happier times. That she sang as a lullaby to her children when she tucked them in at night when they were small. For a moment, she felt something again as the song’s words, simple and sweet, floated about her head. 

_Lavender’s blue dilly dilly_  
_Lavender’s green_  
_When I am king dilly dilly_  
_You shall be queen_  
_Call up your men dilly dilly_  
_Set them to work_  
_Some to the plough dilly dilly_  
_Some to the cart_  
_Some to make hay dilly dilly_  
_Some to cut corn_  
_While you and I dilly dilly_  
_Keep out of harm_

_________________________________________ 

The shadows had gotten stronger. They chased her down the halls, lurking behind every corner and beneath the doors. Haunting her whenever the lights would dim. When before she slept through both hours of night and day, now she hardly slept a wink. When she had no appetite due to grief, now it was the fear that prevented her from partaking in eat and drink. And as she rounded the corner, she felt a panicked sensation paralyze her body.

Who did she have to turn to? Roland trusted Aldred as blindly as she once had. She had burdened Harold too much, and no one from her court remained in her closest confidante. There was one option that remained that sent her heart pounding as she continued towards the Northern side of the castle. Servants with their hands full strode about. Northern court nobles watched her pass. She heard whispers of _That’s Queen Eleanor, why is she in a hurry?_ and _It’s so cold, why haven’t they closed the windows?_

A hiss-like laughter assailed her ears. With her eyes staring straight at the wood Queen Eleanor banged at the door. Something _pushed_ her shoulder down. Goosebumps prickled her skin and a warm, venomous breath blew against her.

It took all she had not to scream.

“Come in the door is open My Lady,” came Wise Woman Shannon’s voice from the other side.

Light streamed through from the windows and candles around Shannon’s chambers. The door closed. The shadows retreated. Eleanor gasped then lowered into a curtsey. Her hands were clammy and shook.

“You look exhausted My Lady, sit down.”

Shannon helped Eleanor to one of the chairs by the table. She looked her over after ensuring that Eleanor was comfortable before reaching for the spare. She pulled the medicinal chest closer to her as she sat down.

“As wise as Lord Aldred is in most areas of the human condition, I can see why you would turn to me,” she opened the chest. “If I may speak freely My Lady, most men do not fully understand the pains that come along with being a fertile woman and of the change that marks the end of it. What I have—“

“I fear my life is in danger,” Eleanor interrupted her.

Shannon glanced up. Her hands closed the chest.

“My Lady?”

Eleanor leaned forward. Terror shook in her eyes. 

“There is a darkness in the shadows. It sender wants me dead I am sure of it.”

Shannon reached out to take Eleanor’s hand.

“A shadow?” She asked.

“It is black and like smoke in form. It announces itself by chilling the area around where I stand. It then grows larger and towers over me. It screams and hisses. Taunts. And I swear that at times I can see the eyes and mouth of a demon staring at me. Whatever I do, wherever I go, it follows and I cannot get rid of it. Please! Please help me!”

Eleanor then realized that she had tightened over Shannon’s hand in a forceful grip. She pulled away and then clasped her hands together in an attempt to soothe herself.

Then Shannon was by her side. She felt her hand gently place itself on her shoulder.

“Who would send such an evil thing to you?”

Eleanor frantic gaze bounced from the windows, the corners, and of the crack underneath the door. She then turn and whispered in Shannon’s ear:

“The man you spoke of. Inside his wardrobe there is a chest. It holds a secret I cannot speak of.” 

Eleanor desperately looked up at Shannon, hoping for a sign that she understood her words. She nodded. Though naturally stern in her resting gaze, Shannon wore an expression of great severity as she went to speak:

“I do not know what I can do at moment My Lady until I have solid proof, but I assure you that I will do my best to keep you safe.”

Shannon went back to her chest and opened it. She proceeded to pull out a variety of salves, herbs, and powder.

“This My Lady grows in the tundra and is very useful for cooling the body down when your head flashes with heat. It is called glacier root and you can dissolve it in your drink,” she handed Eleanor a vial bottle. “Peppermint that you can boil into a tea for cramps. And this—“

Shannon handed Eleanor a small pouch.

“Is Coalspark. When you sprinkle it on the kindling in a fireplace the fire is enchanted to burn bright and through the night until dawn. If the shadows wish to strike while you sleep they will be repelled.”

_____________________________________________ 

The brightness of the flames lit up every inch of the bedchamber. Eleanor felt at ease as she pulled the covers over her. Her long hair flowed behind her as she laid her head back on the pillow. Roland approached the bed. As he got in, his eyes went from the layer of covers and blankets on her to the fireplace.

“Are you that cold Eleanor?” He asked.

“I was before but now I am fine,” she said.

Roland placed his hands over the covers. The sleeves of his nightshirt bunched up as he glanced up at the ceiling.

“I hope that tonight that you can sleep easy. I am afraid that I have to rise early in the morning for a meeting with my subjects.”

“You have always been quiet. I don’t think I will hear you this time,” Eleanor turned her head to look at him.

Roland smiled as he looked back at her.

“Goodnight.”

He began to close his eyes.

“Roland,” something compelled Eleanor to speak. She turned her whole body to her left side to face him.

He was awake again and like her, turned on his side.

“We never loved each other, but you have been a great friend to me throughout the years and a great and loving father to our children. I treasure that above anything else.”

Roland’s face became soft. He reached out and gently caressed Eleanor’s cheek.

“I enjoy your company as well Eleanor and I hope we can spend it together for many years more.”

Eleanor’s eyelids drooped. She smiled over at Roland before her head sunk down and her lips parted to exhale.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Snow pitter-pattered against the window’s shutter. It noise beat in Eleanor’s head. An unbearable clanging that made her head feel like it was going to crack open. She, alone, still in her nightshift, and struggling to get off the ground, lifted her chin up. She wheezed. Hands hovered somewhere over her throat and chest. The bedchamber spun about in dizzying circles. The empty cup that now lay by her foot was knocked aside. Eleanor’s stomach lurched and she vomited. To her horror, the sick that splattered on the floor and onto the front of her nightshift oozed a deep, rancid-smelling black.

Her chest constricted. She collapsed with a series of half-retches-half-gasps that made her throat feel like it was burning.

“Help!” Her voice faintly echoed. Her eyes bulged and black ooze trailed down her chin. “Help!” 

The shadows that engulfed the room closed in. They swarmed about her, their form thick and almost corporeal. Claws as sharp as daggers slashed at the air. The shadow let out a howl so ferocious that she choked. A mouth, grotesque and wide stretched to reveal a set of fangs that dripped with venom. Two eyes glowed a fiery red. The features then contorted together with a shriek.

“De-de-m-m-” Her throat was closing up. 

She lay on her back with her limbs sprawled out. Her vision started to flicker as she caught sight of purples robes staring down at her.

“Y-you!” 

Aldred crouched down. His hands clasped together as he leaned forth to give the impression that he was towering over her.

“But Your Majesty, I thought you _wanted_ to die.”

“Not—like—” A new wave of vomit cut off her words.

His blank, cool expression did not waver. No anger or disgust boiled in his eyes. Undeterred, he reached into his robes to procure a dagger.

“Now, now My Lady. Do you not want to see your sons again?”

Aldred grabbed her arm in a bone crushing grasp. With quick precision he pulled up the sleeve of her nightshift and slit her wrist. Blood gushed. She cried out and he moved to place the dagger in her opposite hand.

Tears streaked down to wash away the residue on her cheeks. Blood trickled down the side of her sleeve and she convulsed. Through blurry eyes, Eleanor saw Aldred’s thin lips turn up into a sinister grin.

“Oh Eleanor,” he said in a calm tone. “You poor, **tortured** soul.”

His delicate, thin hands shot out. Eleanor’s body was whiplashed back down as the sudden force made the poison surge through her heart and pump it dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Professor Sonia’s Notes**  
>  Source A, the earliest version of the ballad, is the only one that identifies Queen Eleanor’s death as the great tragedy that served as a catalyst for the events to come. Source B is silent on what the tragedy was, perhaps relying on the listener’s knowledge of Source A to fill in the gaps for it, compared to Source A, rushed through the first series of events. On the other hand, Source C mentions multiple tragedies that fell upon Hammerlocke. From what is inferred, at least two are tied to the death of the Northern knight at the Autumn Tourney and Queen Eleanor’s death. The others are unknown. 
> 
> A psychologist who worked with literature scholars and historians in decoding the Ballad and relevant sources hypothesized that Queen Eleanor would have made a likely candidate for a major depressive episode, and possibly either prolonged grief disorder or persistent depressive disorder. However, more information would have been needed for an accurate diagnosis.
> 
> **A Note From The Author**  
>  Mental health in the medieval era was a subject that did not have a comprehensive understanding as we do today, but like us, practitioners and laymen alike had differing viewpoints, stereotypes, and treatments regarding individuals who had mental health conditions that were both positive and negative. By writing Queen Eleanor and the characters important in her life, I wanted to portray her situation as realistically as I could. 
> 
> Lavender’s Blue is an English folk song/ nursery rhyme that dates to the 1600s, but I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to add it here.


	6. Shannon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Great Plague spread to choke The Court of The North  
> In Darkness It hid from there It pounced  
> Leading all who consumed to ail, wither, and die  
> Leaving those who remained: the Court from The South   
> _The Ballad Of The Darkest Days Lines 53-57_

She requested that the queen’s body be moved to her room for preparation for burial. As the door closed behind her, Shannon faced the bed and recited a prayer. Her ponyta who she had brought up from the stables curiously glanced over at the bed. She let out a soft whine.

“I know Moonlight, bedchambers are no place to prepare the dead, but I cannot let Aldred get to her first to cover up his crime.”

The royal gown in which Eleanor was to be buried in was spread out on the table. Shannon grabbed a jug of water and a sponge and approached the body. She set them down on the floor. Moonlight the ponyta stood beside her as she gently propped up Eleanor’s head.

“You think this would get easier after preparing the body of my husband, of Queen Eilwen, and all the others I cannot count, but it never does,” Shannon said in a mournful tone. 

She did not reach for the sponge. Instead, her hands shot to Eleanor’s head. She felt about the back and sides of signs of bumps or bruising. Pried open one of her eyes to study the cloudiness that set over the bloodshot vessels. Her hands tilted the head upward. The morning light that shone from the window highlight the bluish tinge of Eleanor’s skin. As she glanced over the nose and mouth, Shannon paused. Moonlight raised her head forward to get a better look. 

“It still froths.” 

Shannon then placed Eleanor’s head back and knelt down. She pulled out a chest full of potion making tools and took out a pick and a vial. She rose to her feet and directed Eleanor’s head into a tilt. Holding the vial underneath Eleanor’s chin, she pried the mouth open with a pick. The ponyta neighed. Shannon’s cheeks bulged and she coughed.

“And _reeks,_ ” her eyes watered. She moved to scrape the black ooze from the corner of Eleanor’s mouth. Careful not to make direct contact with it, Shannon pushed the ooze with the pick into the vial. She set down the pick on Eleanor’s chest and corked the vial. The ponyta had reached Shannon’s side. She had a curious gaze as Shannon held up the vial to the light.

“What vile poison is this?” Shannon wondered out loud. 

The ponyta whined again as if to answer. Shannon placed the vial within a pouch, then stored it back into the chest. The ponyta maneuvered the chest back underneath the bed with its front hooves and Shannon took the pick and threw it into the fireplace.

“The only thing we know besides its mortal effects are that it came from a plant or creature that loathes fire and light.”

Back by the bedside, Shannon began to roll Eleanor’s sleeves up in order to ease removing the nightshift off her body. Though the slit across her wrist did not bleed, it was still fresh enough to maintain its crimson color. Shannon let Eleanor’s arm rest in her hand. She glanced from it, to the other arm that lay motionless by her side, then back to the direction of the wound.

“This was her dominant hand,” Shannon realized. “Even if that man believed his actions were calculated, he still acted in haste.”

Her ponyta had become quiet. Shannon sighed.

“Let us pray that these were the only injuries she sustained.”

She began to pull off the nightshift.

__________________________________________ 

The bells tolled as the funeral procession made its way out from the castle, flanked by the royal guards of the North and South. The high priest led the way, dressed in robes of white silk that was lined with black velvet, and wielding a golden crozier in hand. His attendants, dressed in hooded white robes swung orbs of incense about as they chanted along with the priest as they set foot out on the streets. Behind them emerged the two courts, dressed in their most elegant and solemn wear, all shades of black, grey, dark blue, green, or red. Six men carried the casket over their shoulders. Kings Roland and Fergus supported the front, behind them the two princes Harold and Wynvin, and in the back Aldred and another of King Roland’s most trusted advisors. Behind the Southern court, Gwendolyn and Shannon led the Northern funeral goers. In a show of solidarity, they dressed in Southern Green.

The city’s lively streets were empty. All the doors of every house, building, and shop were bolted. Window shutters or curtains obscured the view from the inside. But occasionally, Shannon noticed that a curious onlooker or pokemon would peek through the windows or door cracks to catch a glimpse. To disturb a royal funeral possession was an offense punishable with a grand fine, but Shannon remembered that no one cared to enforce it in the first place. 

They reached the city gates that led to The High Road. The pallbearers stopped and lowered the casket at last. 

Those close to the queen gathered around the high priest and the casket. Shannon and Gwendolyn took their places next to King Fergus and Wynvin. High members of the Southern Court were spread out with King Roland, Prince Harold and Aldred standing behind the high priest. A raise of the hand, and the high priest began to recite a final blessing for Queen’s Eleanor’s safe trip into the afterlife.

“As this soul descends into the twilight—“

The mourners of the Southern Court lowered their heads in respect. King Roland with solemn, tired eyes, focused his gaze on the priest and casket. Young Harold followed his lead, though Shannon could tell from the shift in his stance and how his eyes twitched that the kingly strength he hoped to emulate could not stand against grief’s formidable grasp. 

Aldred kept his head lowered. His fingers tapped against the ornament that decorated the top of his mage’s staff. It was sculpted to resemble a great beast or Shannon concluded from all the times she had seen the staff, its remains. The skeletal beast was painted a contrasting shades of red and blue and the obsidian that served as its eyes glittered underneath the light of the sun. No text, scroll, or story in her possession could help identify the type of beast it was supposed to resemble. The staff’s mystery was another thing to ponder about, Shannon thought as she glanced from it over to the casket.

“And in the memory of Queen Eleanor and her benevolence, may she rest in peace amongst The Gods.” 

Guards and religious attendants moved in. A horn droned as they transferred the casket into the carriage that would carry Queen Eleanor back to Leistershire to be interred in the Crypt of Kings. The carriage door closed and the black flag of death was raised. Southern guards took position around the carriage and its driver pulled at the reins. The mudsdales started into a trot and the funeral party watched the carriage depart until it was out of sight.

The funeral goers then began to make way back to the castle for the funeral meal. Traveling in small groups, they conversed in low voices. King Roland turned towards the high priest. He wore an empty expression as the priest offered words of spiritual guidance and comfort. Aldred stood behind Roland, holding his staff before him with an almost impatient look. Shannon then saw Gwendolyn approach Harold. She placed a hand on his arm and spoke in a low voice. He nodded and they embraced. Next stepped forth Wynvin. He too placed a hand on Harold’s arm with an offer of condolence. Before leaving, Wynvin leaned in, grip firm on Harold’s arm, and kissed his cheek. His lips lingered longer than it should for a kiss on the cheek. It was odd, but before Shannon could think of as to why, King Fergus approached.

“What a terrible day,” he stated.

“Aye My Lord. The poor family,” they started to follow the mourners who had taken off.

They were halfway there when the figure of Lord Tomas of Stow-On-Side excused himself from the group ahead of him. Shannon noticed how his hand rose to his temple, the clammy sweat on his brow, and how his hand clutched at his chest as he stumbled away. His cough sounded, thick and wet, then disappeared into the alleyway.

“With your permission My Lord,” Shannon said to Fergus. 

He gave her a curt nod. Shannon walked towards the alleyway to find that Lord Stow had not gone far. His trembling hand struggled to take hold on the side wall of a butcher shop. He groaned and then his breath came, sharp and rattled.

“Lord Stow?”

Lord Stow did not turn.

“It’s nothing Lady Wise Woman of Cir,” he spoke, out of breath. “I think I need a moment to myself, just a diz—“

He heaved. His vomit, as black as coal and thick as winter slush, ran down the wall.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Shannon only had time to pull a robe over her nightshift, grab the medicine chest, and light a candle. With Moonlight galloping behind her, she ran down the corridor of the Northern quarters of Hammerlocke Castle. For four days and four nights, she had little rest or time to herself. About half of the court had fallen ill with the same condition that fell upon the late Lord Stow and Queen Eleanor. Three had perished. The rest were still severely ill but slowly recovering thanks to a combination of quick acting and discovering which antidote countered the poison’s effects. She came to a halt in front of the chambers she was to attend to. The healer called her over. 

“It’s Lord and Lady Halberd’s daughter Wise Woman,” he said as he pulled the door open. 

“Which one?” She asked, knowing that the healer served Hammerlocke Castle and not the Northern Court. 

The sight of The Halberds confirmed the daughter in question. The Lord and Lady, in their night-things sat in the corner of the room with their other two children Seamus and Tara. They looked on as Shannon and the healer entered the room, then an excited gasp came as the boy, only five, caught sight of Moonlight. 

“It’s Lady Wise Woman Shannon! Did you bring your ponyta to come play with us?” He started to follow them.

_“Seamus!”_ His mother exclaimed in a distraught tone as she pulled him in to sit on her knee. 

“Not tonight I’m sorry,” Shannon rushed past them.

“Will she play with us later when Oona gets better?” Seamus innocently asked.

“You _idiot!_ She’s not going to be able to play she’s _dying!_ ” His older sister Tara, a girl of ten, dramatically snapped at him.

The shouts of the sibling squabble faded as they approached the curtained off area where the Lord and Lady’s bed lay. There, propped up against the pillows lay Oona, a girl of eight years. Her pupils were wide and bloodshot. A deathly pallor shone upon her cheeks. Fresh sick dribbled down her chin and the sides of her face. Her lips, blue and swollen, trembled as Shannon and the healer rushed to her side. 

“Oona dear girl don’t be frightened. We are going to make you better. Can you speak?”

The girl violently shook her head along with a grasp at her throat.

“She can’t breathe!” The healer motioned for Moonlight to move forth with the chest she carried on her back. 

Shannon slowly maneuvered the girl into an upright position. One hand straightened her back while the other supported her chest. The rhythm of her heart skipped every second beat.

Working quickly, the healer threw several herbs together into the mortar. He ground them up then added water. He stirred, then returned to the bedside. Shannon raised Oona’s head back as the healer raised the mortar to her lips.

“Drink up now. Come on! Let’s hear air fill you up,” Shannon encouraged her.

The motor’s rim shook against Oona’s gaping mouth. Shannon tilted her head back. She gently placed a finger against her throat to see if she swallowed.

“It’s down,” she informed the healer.

“I’ll get the antidote,” the healer rummaged through the medicine chest.

With a hand on the girl’s wrist, Shannon counted the passing seconds. It was somewhere between forty-nine and fifty when Oona’s jaw dropped. Her body tensed up against Shannon. Her sharp gasp pierced the silence of the chambers.

“Good! Good girl! _Breathe!_ ” Shannon patted her back.

The back of the girl’s nightshift was damp with sweat. A faint pinkish color spread out from her cheeks. Tears formed and swished to hide the prominence of the blood vessels that popped out. Her chest rose and fell with a series of hacking, wet coughs that made her spit up black sputum. 

“Antidote,” the healer rejoined them holding the mortar full with a bright pink colored potion that bubbled and an empty chamber pot.

Oona’s tired eyes flittered. Her limp body slumped back. Shannon’s hands smoothed back her hair and gathered it together.

“The antidote will make you sick one more time. It is to flush the poison out. You can overcome this Oona. I believe in you little lamb.”

The healer knelt and tilted the mortar to Oona’s lips.

_____________________________________________________

Little Oona’s head nested against the pillow to find a comfortable position as she slept. Her breathing had returned to a steady, calm rhythm. A cool cloth lay on her forehead. Lady Halberd sat next her in the bed. She held onto her daughter’s hand and with a relieved sob leaned down to kiss the top of her head. Lord Halberd, holding his son who snoozed against his shoulder, was more composed but also wore a look of overwhelmed relief. Young Tara, clinging to her father’s waist, blubbered. The healer went over to Lord Halberd and handed him a vial.

“Make sure she takes a spoonful of this with every meal for the next—“

Shannon gently pulled the covers over Oona’s sleeping figure. She removed the washcloth and placed a hand on her forehead to check for a fever.

“My Lady you should rest. I will keep watch over her,” she said to Lady Halberd. 

“Wise Woman you are too kind but what if you tire? We only have two beds in the chambers and I am afraid they are all taken by my family,” Lady Halberd whispered.

“Sleeping on the floor is good for the back, I do not mind,” Shannon answered. 

“Did you notice anything unusual in her condition?” Came the healer’s voice.

“None at all.”

“What did she have for her evening meal? I assume the children ate here instead in the Great Hall.”

“They had bread, potatoes, applesauce, an assortment of meats. I think it was roast swinub and wooloo cho—“

Shannon’s body shot upright. The ends of her robe fluttered as she got up to her feet.

“It’s the _swinubs,_ ” the similarities between the accounts of the patients she treated became as clear as the sky after a storm. She turned towards Tara. “Did you or your brother eat the pork?”

Tara fiercely shook her head.

“No because Oona ate it all and that’s why I was so _angry_ at her. I may have shouted terrible things but I didn’t want her to _die!_ ” The guilt that shook on her breath gave way to a new round of tears.

Her father gripped her shoulder with a free hand. Her mother raised her head.

“It’s not your fault darling,” she said in a sympathetic tone. 

Shannon gazed over at the door, then over to the nearest window that was bolted tight to prevent cold from entering.

“I must inform His Majesties, the kitchens, and the bailey keep first thing in the morning.”

___________________________________________________________________________________________ 

Exhausted, Shannon leaned back against the corridor wall. She closed her eyes for a second and let her mind and body relax from the strain of rushing about castle, to the city marketplace, back to the bailey, helping the pigsty keepers examine the swinubs, back to the castle again where she would return to her chambers to brew new antidotes, as well as add to the record of all the poisonings within the past week. She took a deep breath and reopened her eyes to find Wynvin standing before her with an appletun in his arms.

“Tired Auntie Shannon?” He asked.

She stiffened her relaxed stance. Her finger stuck out, ready to scold.

“Wynvin! What on earth are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be with your father?”

“I was in his company but he sent me off on my merry way. I figured that this would make a grand opportunity to introduce my newest pokemon to you. Now say your greetings dear boy!”

Wynvin moved the appletun’s front paw back and forth.

“Good day Auntie Shannon it is a _delicious_ -ight to meet you!” He exclaimed in a goofy tone.

Shannon rolled her eyes. Her lips quivered to stifle an oncoming chuckle that bounced about her throat. 

_Such a silly, sweet boy_

Her hand reached out to give the appletun a pat on the head. The apple dragon happily chirped. She smiled down at it then up at Wynvin.

“How did you come about this appletun?” She asked.

“I caught him myself out in Hammerlocke’s Hills already evolved,” Wynvin boasted with a swing of his arm upward.

“What a _lucky_ catch. Appletuns and flapples often scurry away upon hearing humans rustling through the tall grass,” she remarked.

“I attribute it to my quick and nimble senses,” Wynvin said.

Shannon scratched the appletun underneath his chin. 

“Does he have a name?” She asked.

“Like the one of my father’s corviknight, it’s a secret,” Wynvin told her.

With a _hmph_ her eyebrows furrowed as she looked towards Wynvin. 

“Perhaps he bears the name of the one who has caught your eye?” She suggested with a hint of mirth in her tone. 

Though Wynvin still smiled and carried himself lighthearted and carefree, a brief panic settled in his eyes. However he did not miss a step as he went to address her.

“Goodness gracious Auntie what makes you think that a man like me who is kept by his royal duties would have time for a lover?”

Shannon shook her head. She chuckled as she raised a hand to Wynvin’s cheek and gave it a pat.

“This may come as a shock for you dear boy but I was _young_ once.”

__________________________________________________________________________________

Gwendolyn’s eyes were glued on the diary that she held up. Her quill hand, slower than it’s usual writing pace, lingered on the page before raising the feather end to her lips. Shannon, not amused by her act, tapped her foot to get her to speak. Gwendolyn hummed. She turned back to her diary.

Shannon then cleared her throat in the manner that she’d used whenever the twins would get into trouble as children. Gwendolyn’s hands folded the diary shut. It was then she turned around to address the question that she had tried to evade:

“But I haven’t coursed Auntie Shannon. Not for at least two months,” she held up her third and pointer fingers for emphasis. “Oh it was the traveling, the stress, and now this frightful business with poor Queen Eleanor’s death—“

“Bless her soul,” Shannon prodded her to say, as all good people should with the recently deceased.

“If the gods did exist they wouldn’t concern themselves with an occasional slip of the tongue,” Gwendolyn went on.

_“Gwendolyn!”_ Shannon exclaimed, shocked by her casual blasphemy. 

“All of these things have caused my womb to wander. I am afraid that the marriage cannot take place until I am of a fit disposition. Who knows how long that will take,” she said in a loud voice.

With a _tsk-tsk_ Shannon placed her hands on her hips.

“Gwendolyn you are of noble birth, not a girl who works the fields. I know you are lying.” 

A snap of her fingers and a full cloths basket zoomed out from underneath Gwendolyn’s bed. Shannon curled her hand and the contents of the basket over. Shifts, petticoats, rags and trousers, all bearing faded brown stains tumbled to the floor.

“You coursed last week.” 

The diary slipped from Gwendolyn’s grasp. Her face pale and desperate, she rose so suddenly from her chair that it toppled over.

“Auntie Shannon I know that King Roland and my father want Harold and I to marry as soon as possible but this month is too soon! You and I both know it’s _madness!_ Why carry out a wedding so soon after a death? And what about our court? They’re all ill and—“

Shannon was quiet as she took in Gwendolyn’s ramblings. As Gwendolyn moved to speak again, she stepped forth.

“Please Auntie! _Please!_ I _cannot_ marry Harold!” Gwendolyn’ pleaded, her voice high and breathy. “I’d rather _die!_ I—“

Shannon’s arms wrapped around Gwendolyn. With a cry, the princess’s head crumpled on her shoulder. Shannon’s hand on Gwendolyn’s back bunched up and moved into a soothing rub.

“I know you are _scared_ child,” she started in a soft whisper. “And your fears are not foolish ones. To leave your whole life behind and start anew in this time of uncertainty, it must feel as if the whole world is _crashing_ down upon your inexperienced shoulders. I _understand_ your pain and _feel_ it from the depths of my heart. And as much as I want to protect you and keep you close like a mother would with her daughter, there is little I can do to persuade him. You and I both know that he can be as stubborn and unmoving as a mudbray at times, but that is because he has a great love for his family and kingdom, and would do _anything_ to see them thrive.”

Shannon’s hand stroked Gwendolyn’s long, blonde hair. It then slid to support the arch of her head, like a parent would holding their infant child’s head upright. She kissed the top of Gwendolyn’s head and looked up at the room about them.

“Even in these darkest of days.”

______________________________ 

Moonlight bucked its head with a frantic cry. Her hooves slid against the wooden floors of Shannon’s chambers, leaving visible U-shaped skids where she had tread. Shannon gently yet firmly took Moonlight in her arms. Moonlight’s nostrils flared as Shannon’s hand rose to her mane. She began to stroke it, like she had did with Gwendolyn’s hair earlier that day. 

“Moonlight, little one, I must ask ye for ye power. The darkness creeps ever closer and it is only your light that can shine upon this mystery before it claims more lives.”

Her fingers slid. Moonlight no longer struggled. She lowered her head to allow Shannon to hold onto her horn.

“I promise it will be quick girl.”

Shannon picked up the dagger. With a diagonal cut, she sliced off a paper-thin fragment of Moonlight’s horn. The ponyta’s neigh came as a whimper. Tears formed in her eyes as she watched Shannon put the fragment into a mortar for safe keeping. She then reached down for her supplies again. She emerged with a sponge, salve, and dressings.

“There, there. It wasn’t so bad was it?” She said as she cleaned and dressed the wound. 

With mortar and pestle in hand, Shannon ground up the ponyta horn to a smooth, sand-like consistency. She then carried it over to the table where the vial of poison sat on top of a sheet of parchment that was covered in magical symbols. She sprinkled the ground ponyta horn on top of the symbols that gave off a golden sheen. A hum filled the air as Shannon positioned her hands over the parchment paper. Specks of magenta energy rose with a sparkle.

“Oh ye that cowers in the shadows that dares struggles against these binds, tremble in front of psychic light!” She chanted. “Uncover the masks that shrouds ye to reveal the true identity!” 

A flash of bright light illuminated the chambers. Moonlight gave out a neigh and Shannon jumped back as the poison bubbled and overflowed. With a hiss and a bellow of steam, it cooled to revealing that its coal-black color had turned a deep shade of purple.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

The council room door shut behind the figures of King Roland and Shannon. With a flick of her hand, the flames of the candles in the chandelier hanging above glowed a brightness similar to sunlight. Turning back to the door, she uttered a spell to enchant the door to prevent those passing by from hearing their conversation.

“Wise Woman,” King Roland took hold of a chair for her to sit in.

“How gracious of you My Lord, but I prefer to remain standing whilst we speak.”

“Then I shall follow your lead,” King Roland put the chair back.

The King of The South and The North’s advisor stood a foot apart. Shannon’s hands clasped together like she did when she informed King Fergus of news. She bowed her head then looked straight into his eyes. 

“My Lord, I do not believe that Queen Eleanor’s death, bless her soul, was a suicide. It was _murder.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Professor Sonia’s Notes**  
>  During the medieval era when religious belief had a stronger hold on everyday life than it does today, the phrase _bless his/her soul_ was used when mentioning the name of the deceased for a period of one to two months after their death to not only honor their memory, but to ensure that they would adjust to the afterlife. For deaths that had a profound impact on the living, those of family or close friends, they might choose to say _bless his/her soul_ after mentioning the deceased for a longer period of time: months, years, or even for the rest of their lives. 
> 
> Gwendolyn kept a series of diaries that spanned the course of her life from her tenth birthday up to the day of her death. Left undisturbed for centuries, it was found in the royal library when Hammerlocke Castle was being repaired in 1920. These books have given historians valuable insight into not only of the years prior to and after Galar’s formation, but of the day to day life for medieval noblewomen. 
> 
> Below is an excerpt from her first entry, adapted to modern Galarian for reader convenience:
> 
> _Greetings Diary! My name is Gwendolyn. Today is a special day for you are born as I was ten years ago. Father gave you to me as a present. He said that this would help with my writing and that I have a good temperament for reflection on my thoughts and actions. I guess that he is right. If my brother Wynvin had a diary, he would just write silly things and draw silly pictures. I assure you that my jokes and pictures are much more refined than that._
> 
> **A Note From The Author**  
>  While BOTDD is rated T for Teen due to decisions on how events in the story are told, it, as seen in the last few chapters, this one, and going forward, will reference and briefly touch upon mature themes as it pertains to the story.


	7. Harold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And lo wit’ a heavy heart and fill’d with fear   
> Prince Harold sought great comfort in his trusted Wynvin  
> Beacon of strength wise beyond his years   
> Their suspicions cast they vowed for revenge   
> To search in shadows for the villain   
> _The Ballad Of The Darkest Days Lines 60-65_

**NOTE:** This chapter contains a brief discussion about homophobia

The golden ends of the burial cloth that covered the casket brushed against clumps of dirt and yellowed grass. The pallbearers stepped back. A dull pain pinched Harold’s arms and shoulders. His gait slow and stiff, he joined his father’s side behind the casket. The chanting of the High Priest and his attendants slowed until it was cut off at the last syllable. The High Priest took his position in front of the casket.

“As this soul descends into the twilight—“

_First it was Stephen. Sweet, idealistic Stephen who rallied the troops with a passioned speech about defending the South’s might and honor. Who according to Father, Ronnie, and John, screamed as the Icemen dragged him from the rapidash he rode upon with his inteleon Webster. The horse cried out and in its panic, smashed its ironclad hoof against Stephen’s skull. And though Stephen lay half-conscious and unable to defend himself, the barbarians in their thirst for carnage descended upon him with their swords. Once there was no movement, they moved towards Webster and hacked him until nothing remained. The healers said Stephen had been stabbed thirty one times._

_The three of Stephen’s friends who had not been claimed by the war pulled their swords out into a salute as the Crypt attendants lifted the casket. As they departed, a tear formed in Father’s eye only to disintegrate underneath the harsh summer sunlight. Ronnie and John, supporting Mother’s unconscious body, called out for help. Holding his staff underneath his arm, Aldred rushed forward. The scene came blurred through Harold’s eyes for he wept bitterly. He had a great love for all of his brothers, but Stephen had been the closest in age and in heart._

“We shall take comfort—“

The dry, removed tone of the priest, like all the ones who spoke before him, smothered Harold’s ears like the dirt that would be shoveled over the casket once it was laid to rest in the Crypt. A painful lump formed in his throat. It threatened to rise and take form so Harold grimaced to keep it locked in place. Head heavy, eyes stinging, he lowered his gaze. His shaking hand clenched into a fist. His teeth chattered as he tried to calm himself. 

_No one except for Father and the healers were allowed to view John’s body before the funeral. Despite the efforts to reattach the head, it dangled at the end of his neck at an angle with only a strip of skin to keep it from falling off completely. Mother despaired. Ronnie, with a look that suggested that he had seen things of that nature and worse, blankly nodded. John’s morgrem, known to the royal parents, the entire court, and all the servants as “that loathsome creature” had mysteriously vanished after The Battle of Jagged Shore. Father called the pokemon a coward. Harold wondered if the morgrem, who John had humorously named “Dick”, could not bear to face a life without his partner and only friend._

_The rain pelted down. Father held Mother in a tight grip. Ronnie stood next to Harold with a heavy hand on his shoulder. The girl John had been betrothed to, Lady Margret of Northfield wore a puzzled expression once a sharp cry that did not come from Mother broke through the priest’s next phrase. The girl John had been secretly courting, Lady Joan of Tywood, collapsed in front of the casket. Struggling to wrap her arms around it, followed by a kick of dirt that muddied her skirts, Lady Joan Tywood confessed her undying love for John. A gasp rippled through the circle of onlookers. Father wore an expression of upmost fury. Mother cried harder and buried her head in Father’s chest. Ronnie looked on in surprise. The guards swept in to remove Lady Tywood and Aldred crinkled up his nose in disdain. The only one of John’s friends who survived, balancing himself on a cane and wearing a thick leather patch over the left eye, tearfully laughed._

_“Johnny boy you son of a bitch! This was how you deserved to go!”_

“Let us pray—“

Harold remembered that he would be king in the coming year or two. A king did not let his emotions flood him in front of others. He had to be the epitome of strength and fortitude, cast away his own selfish pride, provide comfort for those suffering, and inspire them to carry on. As he raised his head, his lower lip swelled out. Glancing up at the overcast sky, Harold wished for rain to tide down and wash away his shame.

_And then there lay Ronnie. Ronnie, whose body had been discovered a day after the Siege of Hulbury on the beach alongside that of his cinderace Asher with the krabbies and corphishes picking at their decaying flesh. The healers said that at most he would have survived an hour after the barbarians’ gruesome attack. When his body arrived at Leistershire, Father tried to shield Mother from the sight of Ronnie’s body still in its ghastly state, but to no avail for she pushed him to reach the cart. Upon seeing what the barbarians used to strangle her eldest and favorite son, a bloodcurdling cry hit the air. Her eyes rolled back and she collapsed just out of Father’s waiting arms. Asher, whose body was almost unrecognizable, was given his own casket to be buried in beside his partner._

_The sun drifted in and out from behind white clouds. Ronnie’s Kalosian wife Isabelle dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief as the priest droned on. She was unmistakably saddened by her husband’s death, but possibly even more by the prospect of being disowned by the Southern Royals and the subject of vicious gossip and mockery in both Kalosian and Southern noble circles. Isabelle and Ronnie had been married seven years and produced no children. Even though her father was the king of Kalos, the chances of arranging a second marriage for her with the knowledge out there that she hadn’t borne a child in her first would be extremely slim. Harold would be sad to see Isabelle go. Even though he had been a boy of eleven when Ronnie and Isabelle married, Isabelle had always been kind to Harold and treated him with the respect she would give one of her peers._

_The priest’s words couldn’t be heard over Mother’s wails. Her hands crumbled the sides of her veil into a clumped ball. White marks lined her cheeks from where her nails dragged across the surface. Her body crumpled to the ground. The rest of the court wordlessly looked on. Father’s voice pleaded over the priest’s dry tone. Mother’s hands gripped the sides of the casket with an anguished shout. Then Harold found himself by mother’s side. He and Father lifted her up from the ground where she collapsed into the arms of two ladies in waiting. Once the priest finished with the ceremony, the whole court scattered. All of Ronnie’s old friends had perished in the war. Harold blankly stared at the crypt keepers who came to move the casket. Aldred stopped beside him. In a surprising gesture that Harold did not know he was capable of, he clapped Harold’s shoulder twice before heading off to join the king and queen._

And now Mother lay before him. Mother who drowned her sorrows in the wee morning hours. Slit her wrist in a moment of frenzy and committed herself to die alone. How could she do such a thing? _Why_ did she? Didn’t the support and love from her husband and son mean anything to her? Harold’s blood boiled. Guilt swept in like a series of high waves and sent a numbing chill through him. The stinging in his eyes intensified. His nails scratched against his the palm of his hand in the fist he made to stop the tears from overflowing. 

“And in the memory of—“

_Prince Stephen. Prince John. Prince Roland._

“Queen Eleanor and her benevolence, may she rest in peace amongst the Gods.” 

The circle of funeral goers widened then dissolved. Father left his side. Feeling hollow, Harold stood with his eyes out on the patch of grass where the casket lay. There came footsteps. A gentle hand touched his arm.

“Harold. I am sorry about the loss of your mother,” Gwendolyn’s voice came. “I know that the pain you feel is like the weight of a boulder that cannot be lifted. Everything seems bleak. I do not know if you would like a comforting word or gesture, but if you do, I will give it to you.”

Harold’s arms reached out. Her embrace felt warm and light.

“Thank you,” his voice was hoarse. 

Then Wynvin approached. His touch on Harold’s arm was gentle, but firm.

“Harold. Words cannot describe how my heart hurts for ye for I have known that pain as well. I do not want you to be alone in these darkest of days. If you wish to, I will share this burden with you. And if you don’t, I understand. But know that no matter what happens, I will _always_ be here for you.”

Harold’s lips, chapped from the cold, parted.

“Please.”

Wynvin leaned in. His lips puckered up against Harold’s cheek. The sorrow within Harold lessened for a brief, blissful moment before Wynvin pulled away.

___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

In the safety of his chambers, Harold’s cries reverberated against the stone walls. His head buried in Wynvin’s shoulder, tears blotting against the silk of his shirt, Harold’s body shook. Wynvin’s breath blew through his hair. His hands cupped and pressed harder against Harold’s back.

“But why? **Why** couldn’t she have burdened me just a bit more? I’m not a child any longer, I know the evils of the world, there was no need to protect me! If she had confided in me I could have saved her! I could have **prevented** this!”

He clung against Wynvin with a hiccup. Light fingers rubbed against his back, then through his hair as Wynvin pulled Harold in closer. His breath caressed against the curve of Harold’s forehead. He kissed it.

“Harold,” Wynvin’s voice shook. “Your father did not know of your mother’s true intentions either. Even if she confided in the both of you, what could have happened. There might have been a chance you could have stopped her, or a chance that she would have succeeded regardless.” 

Wynvin’s surprising insight stopped Harold’s next cry. With a sniff he gazed up at Wynvin. His face was red and the blue of his eyes were wet.

“When my mother died, I also angry like you. I was just a small boy but I was aware of that fact that my mother wouldn’t have died if it weren’t for the baby she carried. I hated that baby with all my soul. I didn’t even think of it as human, only as a demon that took away my mother and who wanted me to suffer. It haunted me. I railed, cried, cursed the name it never had. It wasn’t until my father explained that the condition my mother had also caused the baby to die that I realized how misguided my anger was. Not only did I lose a mother; I lost a brother, another sister, or even both for twins run in my family. I then mourned for them both. And though my heart hurt, it did not sit so heavily in my chest.”

Wynvin’s arms jutted to his side. He reached up and cupped Harold’s face.

“Harold my love, death is never an easy thing. You and I have both lived along enough to know the fact. But remember that even though its sorrow can cloud our eyes, that there are many reasons to look at it instead of just one. Why dwell on the could have beens, and what you could have done, when you can remember the person your mother was and how much she _loved_ you?”

Harold shakily sobbed. He pressed his forehead against Wynvin’s. He felt Wynvin’s finger rise and wipe away a tear.

“I did not know your mother as long as you did, but I could tell that she had a great love for you.”

New tears cascaded against the edge of Wynvin’s finger. Harold’s arm rose. He took Wynvin’s hand that rested against his face and clasped it into his’.

“And I did too,” he whispered.

He closed his eyes and became still. Their breaths, thick and slow, mingled together as the last of Harold’s tears fell. 

“Stay with me Wyn. I cannot bear to be alone.”

In the nights of funerals past, Harold was too grieved to sleep through the night. But with Wynvin’s presence next to him: the feel of his hand in his, listening to the rhythm of his breath, and the warmth of two bodies sharing the same bed comforted him. Slowly, Harold’s eyelids flickered. Drooped. Until slumber drifted him away.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Greenleaf the rillaboom let out a great roar as he dove headfirst into the snow. His head popped out and he shook it side to side vigorously. He plopped back down. Harold’s laugh hit the air as puffs as he watched Greenleaf roll around. The heel of his boot slid and he started into a run. With a whoop, he landed next to Greenleaf. He took some snow into his hands and formed it into a ball. He tossed it to Greenleaf who hit at it with his branches. Prince and pokemon continued at their game until the sound of a familiar voice cut through the quiet of the morning.

“Ah Young Prince. It is good to see you in high spirits.”

Harold rose to his feet and dusted off the excess snow on his cloak before facing Aldred. Greenleaf did the same from his fur. The eye of Aldred’s aegislash narrowed as its gaze went from Harold to Greenleaf. It made a clicking sound, almost as if it disapproved of Greenleaf’s lax attitude by engaging in play with its master. Greenleaf gritted his teeth with a scowl.

“Sir Aldred. What are you doing out and about in this weather?” Harold asked.

“I have been called by the bailey keep to survey our livestock. Apparently the strange illness plaguing the Northern Court was caused by diseased swinub. Although, I do not see why there is a need for we do not keep our livestock in the same enclosures as they do.”

Harold was not sure how to respond. He had no knowledge of the livestock except for where they were kept and what pokemon species they were. Nothing about how many of them there were, if they were healthy, if some had hatched or died. Harold wondered how Father, (and feeling his heart sink) Mother, or even his brothers would answer Aldred. Perhaps not John; he made a pastime out of getting on Aldred’s nerves in life just to see his cool exterior shatter. Harold decided to choose his words carefully. 

“That seems reasonable.”

“I agree,” Aldred said with a nod of his head. “The Northerners are a stubborn people. They have no capacity to listen to solid advice or to think of a rational solution to a problem. Even when I informed them of how far apart our stables are and how no one in our court has taken ill, they still _insist_ on taking precautions by interfering with how _we_ manage our affairs. Precautions! _Paranoia_ is more like it. If they just quarantined their _own_ swinub and kept the whole matter quiet without causing this great fear, I am certain that the illness would subside naturally. By the Gods, reasoning with any of them is like trying to herd a clowder of meowth!” 

Clumps of snow fell down from Harold’s hair as he gave Aldred a confused look. 

“I have not experienced any of that with them. All the Northerners I have met are pleasant to converse with and are wise in judgement,” Harold said. 

“But that is because you are young and know little of the world My Lord,” Aldred responded with a point of his hand that did not hold his staff. “Forgive my outburst; I fear that my patience has been tried today. I do not wish to burden you with my faults like your late mother did.”

Harold was used to Aldred addressing him in a cold and dismissive tone, but something about how he phrased his words made Harold feel an emotion that he did not know how to describe. A mixture of disgust and surprise about mentioning Mother and insinuating that she put pressure on him, and how he slid it into his apology. But rationality appealed to Harold, reminding him that Aldred had never been a sensitive man. After all, it was his callousness that made an eight year old Stephen burst into tears during a school lesson. 

Harold was four at the time. He did not know what was said, but remembered how inconsolable Stephen had been. He made silly faces to cheer him up. Stephen attempted to smile, gave a halfhearted laugh, before burying his face into his hands with another sob. Ronnie, unusually mature for thirteen and slowly easing into Father’s kingly shoes, took Stephen aside to give him advice. Harold did not know what they discussed, but figured based on his own talks with Ronnie through the years that it was about how people do not think properly when angered and that they later regret their hurtful words and apologize. John, aged eleven, decided to take matters into his own hands. He hid behind a bush when Aldred passed by and pelted him with pidove eggs. Naturally, Mother and Father punished John by having him work as Aldred’s assistant for a month. Stephen bounced back to his old self within a day, though for a time he was more subdued and quiet around Aldred. As for the mage himself, he never apologized to Stephen. Not even after his tragic death. 

“I understand sir,” Harold left it at that.

Aldred turned to leave. His aegislash assumed a defensive stance behind him.

“Well I must get back to my duties whilst you frolic about with your pokemon. Cherish your youth as it lasts Prince Harold. These carefree, idle days, for one day it will be snatched from you as it did for the rest of us, leaving you tired and bitter towards the world. I shall see you later.” 

Aldred’s staff lightly brushed against the snow. The ends of the aegislash’s arms fluttered as it picked up its pace. Harold and Greenleaf watched Aldred and his aegislash head further into the bailey before making a sudden turn to the right by the fence that marked the divide between the Northern and Southern livestock enclosures.

__________________________________________________________________________________

The map of the isle, though its sides were crumbled and its paper worn from handling, lay untouched on the table. Its viewers had taken it out from its scroll with the intention to examine it, but found themselves distracted. Harold’s elbow shoved against the map’s edge. A gasp for air and then he pulled in again. Loose lips slid against each other. His grip on Wynvin’s shoulder tightened with a sharp inhale through his nose. Hot, wet air puffed against him as Wynvin’s lips parted. They eased Harold’s lips open and then he introduced his tongue inside. Surprised, yet intrigued by the sudden action, Harold’s jaw loosened. The feel of Wynvin’s tongue prodding about the corners of his mouth was a strange sensation, but not unpleasant. His own tongue wiggled about to get its bearings before seizing the right opportunity to kiss Wynvin back in the same fashion. Tongue scraped against teeth and cheek. Wynvin’s lips trembled. His hand clamped down on the map with a moan. Heated and sloppy, the energy of the kiss was so intense that Harold felt as if his whole body was aflame. 

_“Oh!”_

Saliva dripped down Harold’s jaw as he broke off the kiss. He turned towards the library door. It had been opened and in the frame stood Gwendolyn. 

Wynvin’s face had gone pale. He spun back around to avoid his sister’s shocked stare. Almost mirroring her, Wynvin’s hand cupped over his mouth. The arm that was propped up against the table tensed. He drew in a sharp breath.

Harold’s wiped the excess spit from his chin with his sleeve. He then rose to his feet. 

“Gwendolyn…I can explain,” he nervously started.

Gwendolyn knelt down to pick up the books she dropped. Surprisingly, her hand moved nimbly, and before Harold could count the number of books on the floor, she was back up.

“I think I see the situation very clearly,” Gwendolyn answered.

Wynvin then turned to look at her. His eyes watered and his inhale sounded like a sniff.

“Gwenie, I never meant to betray your trust I swear. It’s just that—“

“Betray my trust? Wynvin, you are very much aware that I don’t like Harold that way. You don’t have to say anything, I already knew,” she admitted. 

The guilt in Wynvin’s eyes faded. He instead gazed at her with a gobsmacked expression. 

“You know? _How?_ ” He asked.

“For you have the horrible habit of misplacing your calligraphy book with my things and I picked it up thinking it was mine, “she began. “Found out it wasn’t due to the strange drawings, unfunny jokes and sayings, along with confessions of the heart for our former tutor Sir Craig, a _handsome stableboy with a fair countenance,_ Lord Ballonlea’s son Michael, and well Harold’s name was there too.”

Though her tone was still shaky, her wittiness put Harold at ease. He gazed over at Wynvin. 

“You fancied _Michael_ of Ballonlea? Whatever did you see in him?” Harold was surprised.

“I was _fifteen._ He was handsome, brooding, and mysterious, I thought him gorgeous,” Wynvin defended himself with a soft laugh. 

“He’s an absolute _jackass!_ ” Harold pointed out. 

“I have been in the unfortunate position of receiving his attention and can verify Harold’s claims if you still need persuading,” Gwendolyn piped up. 

Harold slammed his hand against the table. The map rattled about. 

“See! Gwendolyn also agrees with me!”

The twins laughed. Gwendolyn adjusted how she carried her books and walked over to the table. 

“And you never said anything about it,” Wynvin said.

“Your writings were secret only to you. Why should I mention them?” Gwendolyn put the stack down. 

“And you are sure you that you do not feel slighted—“

Gwendolyn sighed. 

“You worry too much Wyn. I’m shocked to have walked in on you kissing and embarrassed to have done so and they are the only negative emotions I feel. Do I have to hammer it into you that I’d rather kiss a palpitoad than kiss Harold?” 

“Well you don’t have to,” Wynvin was reassured. 

She took a seat in the nearest empty chair. 

“I’d forgotten that Northerners are more open towards—” Harold found that he could not find just one word to describe his relationship with Wynvin. “Two men as lovers?”

“There are many who are accepting, but there are always people who do not understand,” Wynvin explained.

“I have never heard people talk openly about these kinds of relationships in the South. Many do not know that they exist, others that do tend to find them despicable. But I also met people who understood my feelings, and even some who had lovers of the same gender as them. It gave me comfort in knowing I was not alone.” 

There was a pause and the three youths became quiet. 

“That puts a huge damper on this conversation,” Gwendolyn noted. 

“I agree,” Harold nodded. 

“Why is it that when people attempt to discuss things the conversation turns to what is wrong with the world even as they try to keep it lively?” Wynvin philosophized. “You can talk of love, and there will be someone who mentions how they despise a form of love they do not understand. Mention a bountiful harvest and yet famine strikes and people starve. Talk of people and places and suddenly they are gone without a trace. Why do we mortals dwell on such tragic things?”

“It could be nature. We’re predisposed to suffer. Isn’t that what everyone says?” Harold shrugged.

“Or nurture for we learn to accept the worst in life without a second thought,” Gwendolyn proposed. 

“But why are we still continuing to surround ourselves with doom and gloom? Let us break free from this trap and forget it until we lest need it. Since no one is doing the honors, I shall provide a distraction. How about a joke? There—“

“If you’re going to tell us a good one, how about the one about the barmaid?” Gwendolyn interrupted him with a smile. 

“And thanks to my sister’s persistence, all is back to normal!” Wynvin clapped his hands.

“I haven’t heard that one,” Harold said.

Wynvin’s jolly eyes twinkled.

“Oh ho my dear Harold you are in for a _treat!_ ”

______________________________________________________________ 

King Roland slipped the council room key into his robe pocket. He checked to make sure the door was properly locked and then turned to face the six Southern lords who ruled the eastern coastal towns as well as Commander Highwall, Mage Aldred, and his son Harold.

“All rise for The King,” Aldred announced.

All who were present stood up from their seats and bowed their heads to pay respect. King Roland then raised his hand up. Harold and the others in the room followed his lead.

“Now all shall swear to me ye loyalty and secrecy. There is a spell enchanting this door that prevents the outside from hearing in. What is to be discussed will only reside in this room amongst these fellows and nowhere else. Do ye good men vow to keep the King’s Silence?”

“Aye sir,” resounded about the room.

“You may sit.”

The ends of the wooden chairs screeched against the floor. King Roland took a seat next to his son. The commander laid out a map of the isle and surrounding waters.

“My Lords,” Commander Highwall started. “Our spies have located the source from which the invaders replenish their stock before attacking our isle. It is a small island, uninhabited by men until they built their fortress there. It lies to the east of Hulbury here,” he gestured at the map.

The revelation caused a stir. 

“The _slowpoke_ island?” One lord exclaimed in disbelief. 

“They have been _this_ close to the isle the entire time! Why have we not taken notice of their presence before?” Another asked. 

“There is a magical barrier protecting it that makes it unseen to others until our High Mage Aldred unveiled it himself. He shall take the time to explain its mysteries,” Commander Highwall said. 

Aldred got up from his chair.

“Thank you. I will demonstrate.”

He moved his hand in an up and over motion. Darts of purple energy shot out from his fingertips. They circled around and over each other to match the island’s form.

No matter how many times Harold had seen Aldred work his magic, he always was in awe of how effortlessly he carried it out. Very few had the discipline to practice magic and fewer were able to master it like Aldred did. He had been Harold’s age when he was appointed as High Mage eighteen years ago; the youngest mage to ever work for the Southern Court. Aldred’s cool voice drifted about the room again.

“The magic that the Icemen use is of a different style than ours but similarities remain. From what I have observed they have stationed four summoning portals,” a flick of Aldred’s finger and red dots appeared at each of the corners of the island. “When they are activated, they draw upon the island’s natural energy and transform it in order to cast a concealing barrier. At first glance, its defensives seem impenetrable, however—“

Aldred snapped his fingers. Wavy lines of purple towered above the island.

“We can counter with a powerful offensive: the sea. If we harness its energy, particularly that of the tides, cracks within the barrier will form and expose the island, granting us the advantage when we attack.”

King Roland folded his hands together with a glance over at Commander Highwall and Aldred.

“How many forces will we need?”

“Our spies say there are about five hundred Icemen stationed there. If we were to overpower them, I estimate about a thousand men with reinforcements on the coast,” Commander Highwall said. 

“I would require about twenty of the strongest mages and I am fortunate to have them at my beck and call,” Aldred added. 

“Then Highwall round up the most trustworthy and strongest of your knights along with their foot soldiers. Send them to the coast on the condition that they are to patrol but do not inform them of the mission until we are ready to strike.”

“Aye sir.”

“And to my men: Lord Hulbury, Lord Southport, Lord Pike, Lord Brightsville, Lord Easton, and Lord Sandcliffe, do you pledge your undying support to our cause and are willing to sacrifice blood, resources, and pride in our kingdom’s darkest hour? Raise your hands with an _aye._ ”

All six lords did.

“Aye sir!”

Something of great concern came to Harold’s mind. With haste, he glanced over at his father and asked:

“But Father, if the attack will be as dangerous as the Commander suggests wouldn’t we need more than a thousand men? Shouldn’t we inform the North of our plans and include them?” 

Nine stoic faces stared back at him. Realizing his error, Harold lowered his head in embarrassment. He felt the weight of his father’s hand press down on his shoulder.

“My son, your concern for the lives at stake are commendable, but we cannot burden The Northern Kingdom with our vengeance. The Icemen have taken three princes and a queen. It is our responsibility to put a stop to them once and for all before they set out to take even more lives.” 

Commander Highwall pointed at the map again and the talk turned to the fortification of the coast towns. Harold paid attention as a prince should, but was distracted by the sensation that the secret plan was was terribly amiss.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

The three candles on the table dimly illuminated the darkness of the library. Harold, Wynvin, and Gwendolyn, dressed in their nightclothes, and standing beside the table faced each other in a circle. Gwendolyn shivered. Her hair that had been woven into a braid slid over her shoulder.

“Is the door locked?” She asked.

“Yes,” her brother answered.

“Let’s keep our voices low just in case,” Harold suggested.

The three moved in closer. Wynvin was the first to whisper.

“Gwenie, what is so important that you can only inform us of it in upmost secrecy?”

Gwendolyn took a second to answer.

“They’re planning the wedding for this month.”

Stunned, Harold’s breath took form as wisps before dissolving into the air.

“But _why?_ ”

“I don’t know. I think it mad,” she replied.

“Surely my father isn’t in his right mind. These sudden decisions; it must be his way with dealing with the grief,” Harold thought back to the secret meeting he attended earlier that week. 

“And neither is mine for agreeing,” Gwendolyn added.

“Did they pick a day?” Wynvin asked. 

“Not yet,” Gwendolyn said. “But I estimate they’ll tell us tomorrow and then set the day within anywhere from next week to two to three weeks from now.”

“Gives them ample time to plan. Royal weddings have always been grand events. They need to account for food, entertainment, lodgings for guests, decorations, paying the High Priest, sewing your wedding gown,” Harold said.

“But why not the last week?” Wynvin posed another question.

“They want me and Harold to conceive a child as soon as possible after the marriage. They wouldn’t pick the week that I am unable to.” 

Harold nodded.

“Then what do we do?” His words sounded hollow.

“I’ve been protesting this arrangement since the start and I’m not stopping,” Gwendolyn said through her teeth.

“So have I but I find that it hardly gets me anywhere,” Harold pointed out.

“What of sabotage?” Wynvin proposed.

“You dear, talk like my brother John _bless him,_ would,” Harold said with a smile. 

“Supplies gone missing, wooloo set loose, lost invitations, and damaged fabric could provide a marvelous opportunity for setbacks,” Wynvin gestured.

“But they would simply fix what has been damaged and continue on,” Gwendolyn countered.

“And we would need something bigger than just sabotage,” Harold spoke. “Something so big that it does more than just disrupt the order of things, it _shakes_ it to the very core. But what?”

Harold looked up at the ceiling then back to Wynvin and Gwendolyn.

“ _But what?_ ”

______________________________

There was a figure standing hunched over in the corner. Harold saw a hand extend from a long sleeved robe to sprinkle a glowing pink substance tinted with red. Suddenly the part of the corridor they stood in was a washed in light and Wise Woman Shannon turned around to meet his gaze. 

“Prince Harold,” she bowed her head with a curtsey. “What brings you out in the stillness of the night?”

“I could not sleep,” Harold lied. “What about you Wise Woman?”

“I took it upon myself to light the way for those who wander. Come see.”

Harold drew in closer. Wise Woman Shannon produced a pouch from the belt on her robes and held it out to him.

“Take some Dear Prince. It is a combination of coalspark and psychic light from the horn of a ponyta. If you find that you toss and turn in your sleep and that the dark looms around you, put some in your fireplace or in the shadows like I do now, and you shall find that you sleep easy.”

Curious, Harold took some from the pouch. Its grain felt fine on the hand and slid like sand.

“The dark that looms around you,” he repeated. “Like how children are terrified of monsters in the dark?” He asked.

Shannon looked up at him. 

“There are no monsters in the dark Young Lord, only pokemon who dwell in the shadows.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Professor Sonia’s Notes**  
>  Keeping track of passing time by the year number (for example in the year 2020 CE) in the early medieval era was only reserved for those in charge of record keeping and did not branch out for everyday use for nobility until the 1100s and for common folk much later. It is because of this that historians have not been able to identify an exact year in which the princes were born. Based on historical records of the Ice Lands attacks and through sources such as the ballad and Gwendolyn’s diary, and others, it is estimated that the princes were roughly around eighteen to twenty-two in 530 CE, with the general consensus being nineteen. 
> 
> For readers who are studying the ballad with a map in hand, the island that the Ice Lands invaders occupied is the Isle of Armor. The fortress ruins is the island’s most popular tourist attraction and archeological expeditions have unearthed valuable information about warfare during the early Middle Ages. 
> 
> If you visit the towns of Hulbury, Southport, Pike, Brightsville, Easton, and Sandcliffe you might notice that their city hall displays a bronze plaque that reads: _Six Strong We Shall Not Fall._ This commemorates the alliance between the six cities during the Ice Lands raids and their role in King Roland’s plan to retake the Isle of Armor. Over the centuries as the location of official government buildings changed, old ones destroyed or repurposed, and new ones built, so have the plaques. The most current ones were built into the city halls during the 1800s. 
> 
> **A Note From The Author**  
>  When planning for this fic, I had to make a decision on how realistically LGBTQIA+ relationships and the discrimination and challenges they face were to be portrayed. I knew that I did not want this story to sit heavy on our heroes being outcasted by society for loving each other, but also knew that for centuries, those who write and record history tend to erase the experiences of those in the LGBTQIA+ community, and it could have been plausible that the same happened here. So I set out once again to find a balance, and hope that my take on it is a delicate one.


	8. Gwendolyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And in the Great Hall where the warlords gather’d  
> The Kings welcomed all and ask’d the willing to speak  
> When Prince Harold stepp’d forth eyes alight with might   
> _The Ballad Of The Darkest Days Lines 68-70_

Merriment filled the Great Hall. The two courts and Hammerlocke’s nobility had gathered for the wedding announcement feast. Dressed in her finest wear, her plate untouched despite the smell of delicious meat that tantalized her senses, Gwendolyn glumly looked out at the scene. Harold sat beside her with a similar expression on his face. Unbeknownst to anyone except the three of them, he was holding Wynvin’s hand. The fine red cloth that had been draped over the high table obscured their affection for each other from the rest of the party goers. To Gwendolyn’s left past Harold, the highest advisors of the Northern and Southern court stood in a circle around King Roland and King Fergus. They laughed at something King Roland said. His chortle rang the loudest. He tilted his head back to drain the last of the wine in his goblet. His cheeks were flushed red and his eyes shone bright as his hand patted the back of the chair that was draped by a black cloth where Queen Eleanor would have sat.

The only advisor not present by the kings was Aldred. He sat at the farthest end of the High Table and also wore an expression that indicated that he was obliged to attend this celebration and was not enjoying himself. As the laughter died down, he waved down a passing server.

“ _You!_ I require coffee!” He barked at the server who startled and nearly tripped on his feet with a full tray of bread in hand. Loaves flew. The server stammered out an apology as he went to pick up the bread.

“Don’t bother with the damn bread and your stupid words you lowly cur! _Fetch_ me my _drink!_ ” Aldred spat.

The server rushed off. Aldred cursed more underneath his breath and reached for his wine goblet.

“All of that for a rarity that is bitter on the tongue,” Gwendolyn remarked.

“He’s normally not that unpleasant,” Harold was not as quick to defend Aldred as he should have.

“At least we know we’re not the only ones who do not want to be here,” Wynvin piped up. He picked up the farfetched drumstick on his plate and took a bite. He eyed the food on Gwendolyn’s plate. “Are you going to eat that?”

“Help yourself,” she passed the plate to Harold, who then gave it to Wynvin who eagerly piled it onto his plate. 

After some time after the cakes and pastries had been served, one of the musicians trumpeted the royal fanfare for the attending to face the High Table. Kings Roland and Fergus stood before the table and Harold and Gwendolyn followed hand in hand. They faced the guests and Roland raised his goblet.

“My subjects and fellow inhabitants of the isle. We live in an era that will change history to come,” King Roland spoke in a loud and booming voice. “Within a fortnight my son Prince Harold, and Princess Gwendolyn of the North will join hands in marriage and unite North and South together as the land of Galar. A fortress of might that will prevail against the plague of the Icemen. Our armies shall stand gallant and triumphant—“

King Roland’s body swayed with every other word he enunciated. Gwendolyn wondered how many times he had rehearsed his speech so that he could recite it flawlessly even while inebriated. Nevertheless, she wished it to be over, for by her reckoning King Roland had been rambling on for over _five_ minutes and if he kept up it would be closer to _ten_ and her hand was uncomfortably clammy in Harold’s grasp. 

“And with the two kingdoms as one, no other kingdom or region shall dare challenge us any longer. They will _cower_ beneath us! And we shall reign forever **more!”**

The hall burst into cheers at King Roland’s passionate speech. Cups and goblets were raised high. Gwendolyn saw the figures of those in the crowd jump with joy, clap, whistle, pat their friends on the shoulder, cling to loved ones in a close embrace. Out of the corner of her eye, near the far side where Aldred sat and about two rows down, sat a group of Southern lords who Gwendolyn learned were opposed to the unification. They did not celebrate nor openly express their displeasure except for the glares they sent King Roland. 

The hall quieted as King Fergus stepped forth. He cleared his throat then looked out. Gwendolyn and Harold took the opportunity to briefly pull their hands away. 

“I have never been one for speeches so I will make mine short yet sweet,” King Fergus started, composed in tone. “This is a most happy day indeed. I am blessed to see my beloved daughter marry and ascend the throne. I am proud of the woman she has become. She is strong and fierce, but also compassionate and wise. She will make a great ruler and a wonderful wife.” 

There came applause. The loudest of claps came from the Northern court members. 

_If this were any other occasion Father’s words would move me so that I cry tears of joy_ Gwendolyn bitterly thought with a rapid blink of her eye. 

King Roland stumbled forward. 

“And to you we present the bride and groom and future rulers of Galar: The Royals Harold and Gwendolyn!” 

King Fergus maneuvered King Roland aside to allow Harold and Gwendolyn to pass through. They raised their clasped hands towards the hall and its bubbling excitement, then nervously glanced over at each other. 

It was custom at a wedding announcement feast for the betrothed couple to share a quick kiss on the lips to symbolize their closeness if they had not kissed already. Gwendolyn had kissed many a romantic suitor in the past and hoped to do more kissing in the future, but not if it meant she would be stuck kissing Harold for the rest of eternity. 

Hesitation was mirrored in Harold’s eyes. Gwendolyn watched as his body turned so that they stood face to face. With a gulp, her scrunched up. A deep breath sounded, her eyes shut, mouth tensed to stretch flat, and she hoped that it would be quick.

“I cannot,” Harold’s voice came. 

The hall laughed. Gwendolyn opened her eyes. 

“Do we got the jitters there son? It ain’t all that bad boy! Just pucker up and lean in!” King Roland exclaimed with a stumble. His condition had definitely worsened since the end of his speech.

“How noble, Prince Harold will not even kiss his betrothed until the wedding,” Fergus noted with a nod of respect at him.

Harold let go of Gwendolyn’s hand and faced the kings. 

“It is not that. I simply do not want to kiss her,” he then turned to the hall. “My heart belongs to someone else. The love I feel is so strong that I _refuse_ to accept this marriage that I am being forced in.”

The hall broke out into whispers and murmurs. Gwendolyn, knowing that she could not glance back and raise suspicions, instead looked over at Harold to see if he had planned his admission or if it had been a spur of the moment decision. It was hard to tell.

Her father, a master of masking his true feelings and intent, remained as calm as a clampearl. King Roland on the other hand was _scandalized._

“Son! What are you doing?” King Roland hissed. 

No doubt, Gwendolyn thought as she gazed back out, everyone was abuzz about the identity of Harold’s mysterious lover. To the far right hand side in the second table row, a group of girls who had a great admiration for Prince Harold were in a tizzy as they pushed past the other partygoers. 

Harold stepped so close to the edge of the High Table stand that he nearly teetered over the edge. The whole hall fell silent.

“And it is to you all, that I confess with an honest heart that I am in love with—“

King Fergus gripped Roland’s shoulder with a heavy hand. His arm was propped out at the side in case Roland were to make a drunken bumble towards Harold. 

“The North’s—“

A collective gasp shook the hall. Out of the group of Harold’s admirers, two Northern girls rushed towards the front row with high pitched squeals. They, hopeful that he would speak their name, hung onto Harold’s every word.

A pause. Harold glanced back at the High Table and then out again. 

_“Prince Wynvin.”_

There was an **uproar.**

A deafening shout came from behind. Gwendolyn turned to see her father holding King Roland back. The Southern king struggled against Fergus’ tight grip with curses that kings wouldn’t dare utter in public view. As she looked into her Father’s eyes, she saw that his steady composure had been ripped off his face and had been replaced with a _stunned_ expression. Then at last, she had the opportunity to look back at her brother. 

Wynvin stood cool, calm, and unaffected by the cries of the crowd. Their gaze met and he nodded, confirming that sometime between the meeting last night and the feast, the shocking revelation had been planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A Note From The Author**  
>  I remember back when gen 8 was first announced that several people on the internet noted that “galar” means illness or disease in Irish and Scottish Gaelic. However, bulbapedia claims that the region’s name comes from the word “gallant”, the French word for the holy grail, or from Galahad of Arthurian legend. I decided both would suffice.


	9. Fergus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harken to my words spoke he  
> There lies a traitor in our midst  
> A most foul man  
> Whomst hands are stain’d with poyson  
> That trails across the two courts  
> Selfysh (selfish), full of greede (greed)  
> Who dare lay siege to The North  
> And The South’s dear queen  
>  _The Ballad of the Darkest Days lines 71-77_

King Roland’s rambling had warped into nonsensical gibberish. He gave a shout as two of his closest and strongest friends took both arms. Fergus watched as they attempted to steer him in the direction of his chambers. The man hollered with a stumble. He plopped down to the ground with the other two in tow. Aldred rushed up to help. Still as sour as he had been during the feast, Fergus saw him mutter darkly under his breath as he pushed Roland up. When they were away at last, Fergus turned his attention towards Shannon.

“He’s never drank that much before. Perhaps it is his age catching up to him or—“ Fergus became quiet. 

In circumstances like these, Shannon would fill the silence with her valuable insight. Yet her expression was pensive as she looked over at him, almost as if she were waiting for him to speak.

Fergus did so. 

“Lady Shannon, this revelation of Harold’s is a great shock to me. You think I would have paid attention to the closeness between the two princes and suspected that it was not that of friendship.”

She nodded to indicate she was listening. 

“It was the _subtlety_ of their interactions that alerted me to that there was something more,” Shannon replied.

“Subtlety?” King Fergus was curious. 

“Your Majesty, even though you have knowledge of closeness that comes with the bonds of alliances, friendships, and love; it is your stoic and blunt nature that has prevented you from analyzing emotions in depth. Although I daresay that there were a great many others who failed to see the attraction between Prince Harold and your son.” 

King Fergus gazed out at the corridor again. 

“I do not know if the plans for the wedding can be salvaged from this. It would take a miracle to do so,” he said.

“I agree. Young love with its passion and unpredictable temperament is a force to be reckoned with.”

______________________________________________________________________________________________________

Due to his habit at rising at the crack of dawn (one that he hoped to encourage in his court) King Fergus was not surprised that he was called upon for urgent business while the rest of the castle slumbered in their last hour or two of sleep. There was a messenger waiting in the Great Hall. He had traveled the entire night on his rapidash from the Southern Court with dire news and a request for an audience with King Roland. 

The servants were making the last final touches for when the two courts would come down for their morning meal. As they caught sight of where the messenger sat, Fergus turned to the Southern courtier.

“Are you sure that you are not able to rouse King Roland and his advisors?”

“Aye Good sir,” the courtier responded. “King Roland sleeps as do the rest of his advisors. Except I have not seen High Mage Aldred for he, like you, rises at this hour. His chambers were empty.”

“Perhaps he is practicing his magic,” Fergus suggested. Fergus knew that for magic users dawn was a ripe time to harness the sun’s energy and renew oneself. 

“Perhaps,” they stopped in front of the messenger. 

“I know,” Aldred said. 

The messenger was slouched over at one of the center tables. A plate of fried eggs, warm bread, and an assortment of pear slices and berries lay untouched before him. His hand, flat against the table slid to reach for his cup of tea. His head jolted forward and eyelids drooped briefly as he took hold of his cup.

“Good sir.”

The messenger fumbled. Both hands took hold of his cup and he bowed his head in show of respect.

“King Roland is indisposed at the moment as is the rest of his council, but I have called upon The North’s King Fergus to bear witness to your news. I will inform him of your arrival so that you shall meet later.”

Something about the courtier’s words made the messenger’s slouch break. His tea sloshed about inside his cup.

“But I must speak to King Roland _now!_ This cannot wait any longer! The coast is _no more!_ The Icemen launched a surprise attack, but not on one town like in the past, but all _six._ Six _defenseless_ towns. When before they left destruction in their wake there is now _nothing!_ On the hour I rode out I could see from a distance the blazing fire that stretched for miles that torched every dwelling, shop, church, and manor. Engulfing the bodies of every man, woman, child, and pokemon. And the barbarians corralled the edges, hollering and taunting, brandishing their swords and spears so no one could flee and now—“ The messenger shuddered. His face had gone pale.

“They’re all _ash_ My Lords. Ash that scatters upon the wind and is swept upon the tides until they dissolve into the air and seas. And the six lords who ruled, bless their souls, their heads are impaled on the spears that the barbarian commanders wave as they march inland. Towards us My Lords! Towards **us!** ”

The cup fell with a clang. The messenger’s hands gripped at the sides of his head and he let out a great cry. 

“We are all going to _die!_ By The Gods we are all _doomed!_ ”

The Southern courtier leapt back. A hand had clasped over his mouth.

“This changes everything! I must get the king at _once!_ ” He sharply turned and ran off towards the doors.

Fergus stepped in towards the messenger, but stopped at a length that would give them both enough distance from each other. He placed his hands in front of him, clasped together and at ease. He calmly addressed the messenger.

“We will not die good sir. Our kingdoms have bested these monsters and we will do so again. I will not let the death of the six towns have been in vain.”

The messenger’s hands dropped by his side. He shifted about and turned, giving Fergus his first good view of him.

_By The Gods_ Fergus’ heart sunk. _This lad is only a **boy** of fifteen or sixteen. The same age I had been when I ascended the throne._

Tears streaked down the messenger’s round, red, ice-nipped cheeks. He took a breath to steady himself and the pitch of his cry fluctuated before dropping back to his normal timbre.

_An age where he shouldn’t have the whole world rest on his shoulders_

King Fergus took a seat beside the messenger.

“I cannot imagine how exhausted you must feel,” he said in a gentle tone, the same one he used with his own children. “You have been ridden at a faster pace than any man could to reach Hammerlocke and you must have been terrified for your life. You need to replenish your strength before you take ill. Go on and eat and then rest for as long as you need to. The lord I was with will inform the king of the tragedy that occurred.”

The messenger wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. 

“But I had instructions from Commander Highwall—“

“ _Instructions?_ ” This new admission surprised Fergus.

Rapid footsteps came and in strode the courtier along with High Mage Aldred. The messenger jumped to his feet.

“You must be the High Mage!” He stammered with an awkward bow. “My Most High Lord, where is the king? There—“

“I know,” Aldred stated in a stern tone.

The messenger blinked.

“You? _You know?_ ”

Aldred’s staff tapped the ground. The boy startled. 

“Time is of the essence is it not? Come quickly and we shall meet with the king.”

The messenger stumbled forth towards Aldred. Upon reaching his side, the two started off into a brisk walk, leaving the courtier and King Fergus behind.

_“Faster!_ ” Aldred’s annoyed shout resonated throughout the Great Hall. 

Fergus glanced over at the boy’s breakfast then over at the archway door where the two had passed.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

Fergus heard the scramble of Wynvin’s movements behind the chamber door. The sound of light, barefoot steps drew nearer. There came a press on the other side and Wynvin’s groggy voice answered.

“Father?” Though tired, a clear anxiety trembled in his tone. “I am not dressed—“

“It does not matter. I wish to see you my son.”

The door opened. Wynvin appeared with mussed up hair and clad in a nightshirt that once belonged to Fergus in his younger years. His eyes were downcast as Fergus passed through. Hands tightly interlaced together as the door closed behind them and was then followed by silence. 

“Father,” Wynvin’s voice quaked with guilt and fear. “On the matter of last night; of what transpired. You must be _furious_ with me and may not have the heart to understand but—“

Fergus’s reached out. His arms gently wrapped around Wynvin and pulled him into an embrace.

_“Wynvin,_ ” he softly said. “You don’t need to explain anything.”

Out of the corner of his eye Fergus saw Wynvin’s arms slowly raise up. His hands hovered over Fergus’ shoulders then clenched down in a tight grip. Warm, wet breath brushed against the fabric of Fergus’ shirt collar. Wynvin’s muffled cry followed. 

“Why would I be angry with you? You actions came not from malice. They were of _love._ ”

Wynvin’s head and upper back arched to allow him to rest his head on his father’s shoulder. Fergus’ hand went to the back of his son’s head and stroked back waves of golden blond hair. It was a gesture of comfort that Fergus had not used for either of his children in years.

“I know you love Harold. But he was promised as was your sister. And the future of this isle depends on the arrangement between them.”

“But I want to spend the rest of my days with him! If a wedding is to pass and it means that our love shall be secret so be it!” Wynvin defiantly cried. 

“I cannot condone an affair between the two of you. You are a _prince_ and must set an example for others and that includes not engaging in _adultery._

Wynvin lifted his head. The sleep crust that gathered by the corners of his eyes were washed away by his tears. Holding back a sob, he leaned back and grabbed the sides of Fergus’ arms.

“Then _change_ the conditions and make it legitimate! Convince King Roland to have Harold marry _me_ instead of Gwendolyn! Please Father I _beg_ you! I **love** him!” 

Fergus kept his stoic gaze on Wynvin. He stepped back so Wynvin’s arms could fall back down then raised a hand to place on his son’s shoulder.

“I can _try_ to persuade him.”

Wynvin’s breath was choked up. The tears streamed as a laugh bubbled about and out his throat.

“Oh Father! Thank you! _Thank you!_ ”

He pulled in again and kissed his father on the cheek. Fergus smiled. Nodded. Then clapped Wynvin’s shoulder then cheek as a parting gesture.

____________________________________________ 

“Absolutely _not!_ ”

Of all the times Fergus internally kicked himself for not following Shannon’s advice, the imagined pain he felt was a brutal force akin to a mudsdale’s kick to the head. She was right, as always. Mere _hours_ had passed since the announcement of the surprise attack and King Roland was still in the throes of a great hangover. His stance suggested a pounding headache and vertigo. His expression screamed _murder._

“I promised _my_ son to _your_ daughter! I will not allow you to go back on our deal!” Roland jabbed his finger at him.

“Not quite,” Fergus calmly replied. “It would amend the terms of the arrangement. The kingdom of Galar will still form and our _sons_ will sit on her throne.”

“And if that were to occur, how will everybody else react?” Roland asked. “Do you want this isle to become a _laughingstock_ across the world? From the Far West to the Far East, the Northernmost lands to the Tropics, do we really want to be known as the land whose kings commit _buggery?_ ”

“They don’t have to know that our sons are in a marriage,” Fergus said.

_“Bollocks,”_ Roland spat. “Covered up or not, the truth always _slithers out_ from its cage!”

King Roland spun around. He took a faltering step towards the table where a tankard of ale lay.

“I know that this is a trying time for you,” Fergus started. “You have lost three sons, a wife, and now your kingdom is assailed by invaders. But even as _insane_ as my words sound, we can find something to fix and some good can still come out of this.“ 

King Roland brought his tankard to his lips. He took a drink then looked over at Fergus. 

“You think your temporary fix can solve everything but what of the years down the road? How, can our two _sons_ do their royal duties to ensure the kingdom’s future if they cannot not produce an _heir?”_

King Fergus was quick with a response. 

“They could take in an child of noble birth. One orphaned or cast aside for fear of bringing rumors of illegitimacy to light, and raise it as their heir.”

_Crash_

Fergus leapt back as the river of ale threatened to tide against his boots. Roland kicked the empty tankard aside. His face had turned a blotchy red and spit flew as he shouted:

“Have you gone completely **mad?** Only those with **royal blood** can lay claim to the throne by **birthright!** ”

Roland leaned back against the table for support. He brought his fist up into the air which then loosened. His hand half curled, he pointed it at Fergus as if he were to point a finger.

“I will **not** listen to anymore of what you have to say! Either our son and daughter **marry** or I will use your **insolence** as a reason to wage war on your kingdom too! Now **leave** and let me have some godsdamn peace for **once!”**

Fergus bowed his head.

“I understand. I will go.” 

As Fergus was closing the door, he caught a glimpse of Roland kneeling down to pick up his tankard. His exit was silent and the door hardly squeaked as it closed, yet as the sound of King Roland’s vulgar curses shook the corridor, Fergus thought that perhaps slamming the door would have spared the inhabitants of this floor from a rude awakening.

______________________________________________ 

It had taken two days for the greatest warlords from both The North and South to rally to Hammerlocke. King Fergus, dressed in his royal armor, with his Commander of Armies, Lord Wooddruth by his side and Wise Woman Shannon, and his children Prince Wynvin and Princess Gwendolyn behind him, entered the Great Hall. Trumpet fanfare blared.

“The Royals of the Northern and Southern Kingdoms with their Commanders!”

Hundreds of knights and vassals swept down onto their knees. The clanging of metal sounded as they rose to their feet. A bellow rumbled through the rows. Swords raised high, it erupted as a call for bloodshed, vengeance, loyalty, and might.

Fergus in his many years of warfare had been witness to war cries of all kinds. But none had managed to chill him to the bone as the sight and the sheer will of two rivaling forces setting aside their differences for a gamble that could cost them all. 

King Roland, clad in royal armor that shone brighter and was more elegantly decorated than Fergus’, stepped away from Prince Harold and High Mage Aldred to stand by Fergus’ side. The two men exchanged a curt nod to acknowledge that the conversation on the day of the surprise attack was to be forgotten and never mentioned again.

Fergus and Roland simultaneously raised their hands to gain the soldiers’ attention. A hush fell upon the crowd, and their stance became subservient. 

“We have called upon this council to make the preparations to inflict our revenge on the savages from the Ice Lands,” King Roland’s voice rang loud and clear.

Vicious proclamations that the Icemen die gruesome deaths and burn in hell filled the hall. Stern nods and swift waves of the hands quieted the hall, though Fergus noticed that Roland had a fiery gaze set out before him. Roland continued on, inciting the crowd with details of the destruction of the six Southern towns, how the Icemen were ravaging The South as he spoke, and their threat to conquer the entire isle. The warlords’ outrage teetered on the line between commotion and chaos. Roland _relished_ in it. With hands extended out to the crowd, eyes burning and manic, a grin turned up and contorted wide so that the sound of his primal, bloodthirsty _roar_ hit the air.

Order had to be restored before swords went a flying and blood was shed before a proper battle could begin. Fergus’ chainmail swished and the sound of his stomp echoed. With fierce eyes cast out and hot breath on his lips, the ends of his mustache twitched as he let out a booming:

“ **SILENCE!** ”

An eerie quiet settled in. Fergus sharply inhaled. His throat strained but he breathed from the deepest point of his lungs to give him more energy:

“Are we not **civilized** men? Look at yourselves brandishing your swords, shoving your fellow knights about, with screams of the **possessed!** You act like the **barbarians** we are fighting against!”

Although the warlords’ expressions were obscured by helmets and visors, they cast their gazes down in a mixture of guilt and shame, much in the way of pokemon and children when they did something wrong.

“In this council we shall conduct ourselves with **order.** Those who cannot behave shall be removed from this hall are we **clear?** ”

Subdued murmurs flitted about as the warlords knelt on their knees once more to give their vow. Roland had regained his composure, and stood as tall and strong as a king should, albeit with a sheepish and embarrassed look that flashed in his eyes before the sternness set in. Together, the two kings asked for the pledge of life and loyalty for the sake of the isle. It was given, and Roland cleared his throat.

“As it was dictated by the Gods in times of war if any man, soldier or civilian wishes to speak, do so now.”

The sound of heavy jewelry rattled as Shannon moved forward. She was clad in a simple, short-sleeved robe of gray. Her hair, loose, swayed down her back instead of being propped up in its usual ponyta-tail or bun. Blue paint snaked across her hands, arms, and on her face, the kind that warriors from Cir wore in battle. 

“Ladies and gentlemen of the council, I am only but a Wise Woman. One trained in the arts of healing who hath no desire to engage in the bloodbath of war. But I have chosen to come for I am in possession of information that is crucial to this isle’s survival. Harken to my words for there lies a _traitor_ in our midst!”

Gasps and other shouts of surprise shook the hall. Shocked, Fergus spun about to glance over at Roland, who also wore a similar expression as he did. He then looked to Shannon and the determined spark in her eyes and wondered what she might have encountered to make such a bold accusation. 

“A most foul man whose hands are stained with _poison_ that trails across the two courts! A man who’d _kill_ for selfish greed. Who laid siege to The North and The South’s dear queen! This man sits amongst us, lying in wait, plotting his next move to inform the _Icemen_ of our advances!” Shannon exclaimed. 

“Good Wise Woman of Cir,” King Roland spoke. “What proof do you have that there exists a man who would commit such a dreadful act?”

Shannon faced him.

“For a deed so _dreadful_ one looks to the trail of poison and to its source. Before The Northern Court fell in the clutches of poisoned swinub, there was a _blade._ ”

The rapid pace of hooves hitting against the stone floor came. Shannon’s ponyta entered the hall, and above her head levitated a lance. She stopped in front of her master and the lance fell into Shannon’s waiting hands. She raised the lance high so all could see.

“The specks of black that you see on this lance are that of poison. It was used in the Autumn Tourney, a friendly gathering of the two kingdoms to celebrate the season’s end. The victim of this blade was a Northern knight who was stabbed in an accident that was meant to happen for the perpetrator had switched the Southern knight’s blunt lance with this one before the tourney began.” 

Shannon walked from the left of the high table podium to the right. Her ponyta stuck close to her side as if to protect her.

“The late Queen Eleanor discovered this lance and realized what had taken place. The perpetrator moved into the ranks of _traitor_ as he set out to silence her. The day before she was murdered she came to me. She said that she was being pursued by a _shadow_ that tormented her and announced its presence by chilling the air around her. I did the little I could to assuage her fears. The next morning, she was found _dead_ and the blood that ran from her wrists were as _black_ as the poison that frothed at her mouth!” 

_Shannon never told me any of this_ Fergus’ gaze then moved behind him to glance over at his children’s horrified expressions then at the deathly pale one of Prince Harold who had a hand over his mouth to stifle a scream. High Mage Aldred did nothing to console him. He stared out at the scene with his usual cold glare, but for a second his eyes flickered with _something_ that Fergus could not put his finger upon.

“You may ask,” Shannon lowered the lance and it vanished in an instant. “What sort of phenomenon could stalk the late queen and produce poison that has claimed dozens? Those who tremble in fear may have a _demon_ or a _specter_ come to mind but in truth there is a _simpler_ explanation.” 

Shannon stepped back with a wave of her hand. A portal opened from the roof of the ceiling and with a flash of pink light, down fell a cage. As it touched ground, a bloodcurdling screech made everyone jump back. Two thick purple arms rattled at the bars of the cage. Its body lashed about in an attempt to break free. The magical defenses on the cage activated. Pink light flashed and the creature howled in pain. Trembling, it bared its teeth as if to intimidate and its eyes glowed a hellish red.

“A _gengar!_ ” Someone shouted.

“The culprit before you, the gengar, produces a venom that is toxic to man. It changes its victim’s blood to black and constricts the lungs to hasten death. As many who are knowledgable about pokemon are aware, the gengar possess a difficult temperament for it is a creature who craves havoc and free will. Only the strongest of ghost pokemon masters have tamed the gengar, and one who has ordered it to do his _bidding_ is a man who wields a _fearsome_ power.”

The gengar shrieked. Shannon’s ponyta lowered her horn at the cage in a threatening gesture. Black venom dripped from the corner of its mouth, claws slashed at the bars, and then it convulsed as psychic light shocked it again.

“And with the knowledge before you ladies and gentlemen, which man who holds a grudge against the unification of the two kingdoms would go so far as to _murder_ nobles and a queen? Who targets North and South _alike_ with no reason than _selfish greed?_ Who contains the knowledge and power to safely extract gengar poison to administer to his enemies and control the beast’s every movement to convince Queen Eleanor that she was going mad? Which man who sits amongst us? Who is in the Southern Court’s _closest circles_ was able to carry out his nefarious scheme, and infiltrate every corner of Hammerlocke Castle without his presence being _suspect_ by two kingdoms?” 

Shannon violently turned back to the High Table. Her arm reached out and she pointed.

“This man! The Royal Mage _Aldred!”_

Furious shouts pierced the air. Fergus glanced over at Aldred. Harold had leapt back from him, fists out and clenched with a conflicted expression on his face. Aldred got to his feet. His cool eyes assessed the crowd before him.

“She _lies!_ ” Aldred shouted. “That _crone_ is blinded by her _envy_ of my power!”

“If that is so then why would I _condemn_ your use of power to _murder_ before this assembly, the kings, and the Gods?” Shannon retorted. 

“You have no proof!” The pace of Aldred’s speech quickened. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. “I know not of that gengar!”

“Then why not we _question_ it ourselves?”

The cage’s structure crumbled and flattened. The gengar scrambled forth with an evil grin and a flick of its tongue. It raised a claw and the hall let out a scream.

Then the depth of the crimson in its eyes faded and gave way to a magenta color. Shannon and her ponyta closed in on the gengar. The combination of human magic and pokemon power forced the gengar to freeze. 

“By the power of _truth_ I compel you to locate your master!” Shannon’s voice rang.

As the magenta completely obscured its eyes, Shannon’s body swayed. Her incantation arm seized, then her knees gave way. She collapsed to the ground to the onlookers’ gasps.

Fergus was about to rush over to Shannon’s side where her ponyta had joined her when he saw the gengar raise its head. Its head rapidly shook about as it scanned the hall. Then its legs kicked back and it _ran._ Chairs were knocked about as it made its way to the High Table. Wynvin and Gwendolyn lurched back as it passed them. Then upon reaching the other end, its steps slowed. Its tongue hung out from its mouth. It let out a heavy pant then stopped in front of Aldred.

The magenta in its eyes swirled and deepened to its bloody red color. The gengar gazed up at Aldred with a docile look. Its cry came soft, like of a pokemon craving attention.

Panic washed over Aldred. Fergus saw the fear in his eyes as he glanced from the gengar, back at the rest of the hall, then over at Shannon who was being supported upright by her ponyta. His step came more like a slid, and the fear boiled over into anger as he shouted:

“YOU—YOU PATHETIC, SNIVELING _SWINE!”_

His staff was in his hand. Harold pushed back from the chair he held onto and started out into a run. Aldred brought down his staff and Harold went flying into the air. The hall’s floor shook. Fergus fell to the ground. Screams filled the air.

**“SON!”** King Roland cried out. 

A chilling gust surged through the hall. The advancing soldiers toppled to the ground. Wynvin, with his back against an overturned table, propped up Harold’s stirring figure with one arm and clutched onto his sister’s arm with the other. Though still weak, Shannon shot up to her feet and held her hands out. The beginnings of an invisible barrier flickered then faded as the current blew her backwards. 

“YOUR PLANS TO UNITE THE KINGDOMS WILL _FAIL!_ ” Aldred exclaimed. “THE NATURAL ORDER THAT HAS LORDED OVER THIS ISLE FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS WILL NOT BE _TAMPERED_ WITH! I, ALDRED OF THE SOUTHERN KINGDOM, PROCLAIM YOU _ALL_ WHO DO NOT RISE AGAINST THIS UNIFICATION TO BE MY ENEMIES! AND THOSE WHO DARE STAND UP AGAINST ME SHALL SUFFER _HELL_ ACROSS A MILLION LIFETIMES!”

Fergus stumbled to his feet. Aldred’s wind assailed him. His body was flung into the crowd. Feeling bruises form on his skin, Fergus clung onto the ground and lifted his head to shout:

**“GET HIM!”**

The knights in the front row started into a charge. The ponyta neighed by Shannon’s unconscious body. On all fours and struggling to move, King Roland’s frantic call for his son was drowned out by another quake that formed cracks on the stone floor. Then came a flash of purple light, smoke, and Aldred and his gengar disappeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A Note From The Author**  
>  How many of you guessed that the pokemon responsible for the poisonings had been a gengar?


	10. Harold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aldred The Villain eyes wild with evil glee   
> Stormed forth with staff in hand  
> He brandished a crooked finger at the kings  
> You swine that grovel at the earth saith he   
> Fools who do not know of the power untapped beneath  
> I with my forces and magic will take this isle  
> And I decree that all who do not bow at my feet  
> Shall suffer my wrath and fall before me   
> _The Ballad Of The Darkest Days Lines 80-87_

The thick layer of dust and smoke parted. Harold sat up with a cough. Specks of black and white dotted his vision from the sudden movement. His ears rang with a sound reminiscent of shrill screams, breaking glass, and the howl of the winter wind. Wynvin’s hand sturdied his back. Slowly feeling his vision regain focus, Harold blinked again. From somewhere not close but not far, a muffled cry flitted about:

“Harold! Oh Gods! **Harold!** ” 

Then Father was before him. Wynvin’s hand slid away and Harold’s body leaned in. His arms loosely reached out and clung to his Father’s shoulders.

“Father!” The pitch of his tone fluctuated as the ringing assaulted his ears again. 

“Harold!” Father’s voice was thick. His breath shook against the top of Harold’s head.

The sound of footsteps and armor scraping against the ground weakly resonated. Harold lifted his head to see King Fergus and the ponyta supporting Shannon upright. A gasp, Gwendolyn’s most likely, came.

“You’re bleeding!”

Shannon’s hand was clutched over the spot where her head had hit the ground when she fell. The stomp of hooves came as the ponyta carried her out. Low voices followed. 

“Why would Aldred do such a thing?”

“We must move quickly!” 

“I never thought the man had it in him.”

Harold’s train of thought jumped to the first thing that came to mind.

“If he had informed the Icemen of our plans to attack their fortress then that means he had been working with them longer than we thought.”

“Love? Are you concussed?” Wynvin’s clammy hand rested on his forehead. In another moment Harold would have been shocked that Wynvin was so at ease in expressing his feelings in front of everybody, but in this one he only registered the pain in his temples. 

“My son speaks of a secret attack that the South conducted on the Icemen’s base off the coast of Hulbury. It was protected by magical defenses and an estimate of five hundred men strong. We managed to lift them and sent our forces to find the isle empty and that the Icemen sent theirs to attack the coast—“

As Father spoke, Harold felt him slowly drift away. Wynvin resumed his place behind him. 

“By the gods how _horrible!_ ”

“—Roland why did not you not _tell_ me this?” Fergus sounded furious. 

“It was a _Southern matter_ —“ Father spat back.

The ringing _slashed_ at him. Harold tensed up. His hands clutched at his ears. A throbbing pain beat at his head. He cried out in agony. 

“Harold? Harold? Harold?” Voices swarmed about.

Harold’s body fell back as if it were being submerged into water. Wynvin’s arms shot out and caught him.

________________________________________________________________________________________

A week had passed and no sign of Aldred. The city of Hammerlocke had been placed on high alert and a patrol set out on the streets every hour. Harold, stuck indoors, prescribed bedrest, and bored out of his mind, could only watch them set off from the castle from his chamber window. Day in and out he pleaded with Father to let him join them. He had pointed out that he was well enough to resume strenuous activity, and that the ringing in his ears and the pain in his head were gone, but the healer’s words and his own anxiety had more sway over the king. 

Harold paced around his room in a circle. His rillaboom Greenleaf gazed at him with a confused expression as if to ask if his partners movements marked the start of some type of game.

“I cannot stand being _idle_ as Aldred runs free! _I_ should be the one chasing him down the streets. _I_ should be the one to catch him. The one who carries out swift justice in the name of my mother with my sword _plunged_ straight into his heart. And then Greenleaf, we’ll _charge_ against the Ice devils and _slaughter_ them one by one until—ow!”

Harold hopped back as his foot collided against a chair. His knee bent and hands grabbed the sides of his foot. Greenleaf jumped up and quickly got behind Harold. With his arms out in case of a fall, he guided his partner down to the floor. Harold grimaced and rubbed his foot. He let out a sigh and looked over at Greenleaf who was before him.

“What folly crosses my mind. In my heart of hearts, I know that I do not want to kill anybody. Not the traitor who took my mother from me nor the barbarians who claimed my brothers. But I keep wondering _how_ my fathers and brothers were able to take life in battle without guilt plaguing them. And _why_ Aldred, even knowing how weak and vulnerable Mother was, of his duty to protect her, and how _much_ she meant to Father and I, carried out the chilling act of _murder._ I just—“

If Harold spoke his thoughts mere days ago, his tone would have been frantic and agitated. But now, his words carried the same tired weight like that of his Father’s whenever discussing the deaths in the family.

“I don’t understand. You think he _would_ have cared about her, about all of us to some extent.”

Greenleaf let out a low, sympathetic hum. He placed an arm around Harold.

“Thanks Greenleaf,” Harold said. 

Harold’s fingers pressed down against the wool of his sock. His thumb moved in a circular motion on the area where the pain throbbed then he pulled back to adjust the end of his trousers.

A shout broke through the stillness of the moment. Harold and Greenleaf sat straight up and turned towards the direction from where it came from. The pounding of armored boots clanged as they passed Harold’s chamber door.

“What’s going on?” Harold shot to his feet and hobbled to his wardrobe to grab his shoes.

It was difficult to keep up with the rest of the knights since Harold could not run for long distances without stopping to catch his breath, but he and Greenleaf reached the castle entrance. Stablehands were lined up with saddled mudsdales and rapidashes. Some knights mounted. Others got into formation and waited for orders. King Fergus climbed up onto his corviknight. Wynvin and Gwendolyn were being helped onto their waiting rapidashes. Father, dressed in armor, sat tall on his mudsdale with his gaze out on the city. Purple light flashed in the distance like lightning. It cut through the smoke that rose from burning rooftops of thatch and wood.

“Harold! What in the Gods name are you doing out here? Get back inside it’s not safe!” Father’s leg tapped against the side of his mudsdale with a pull at the reins. 

Harold’s stance tensed. Irrational anger bubbled and burst.

“I’m not going to stand by! I’m coming whether you like it or not!”

“You’re still recovering! I cannot let you join us, now _go_ back inside!” Father exclaimed from a high. 

A childish urge to stomp his foot and shake his fist at Father filled Harold. He gritted his teeth. His foot dug into the ground, elbow pushed back in order to stop him from raging, and his urge morphed into words.

“Then you would let me be a **coward** then? **You** who taught me and my brothers to fight back when struck down! Who said that cowardice is one of the worst qualities a man can possess? **Tell me!** Would you say the same about my brothers? Who were **hindered** due to their injuries in their last breath? Was Stephen a **coward** for not being able to reach for his sword as he lay **bleeding out from his brain and chest**? Or John for not struggling hard enough against the barbarian’s grip as they **chopped off his head?** Or what about Ronnie? Paralyzed as those savages **pulled his guts out like sausage** and wound it around his **throat?** Tell me Father! Did that make them **cowards?** ”

Father’s face paled. His fingers clutched onto the reins. The mudsdale’s head tilted upwards. It neighed in pain.

Shame boiled over Harold’s anger. With hot cheeks stinging against the cold, Harold bowed his head down. His hands clasped together.

“Forgive me Father I spoke out of turn! I didn’t mean to say such horrible things and insult my brothers’ deaths! I only want to bring the man who murdered my mother to justice!”

Shouts and neighs echoed around them. Harold slowly lifted his head. He looked into the mudsdale’s eyes. 

“Harold,” Father started. “I understand how strongly you feel. But that doesn’t mean that you should let your anger have a hold over you and cause you to lash out like a beast devouring its kill.”

_Like you did when you were drunk as a skuntank on the night of the engagement feast and unleashed a similar anger when I announced my love for Wynvin._ Harold bitterly thought.

The cufant that lurked in the corner was a subject that father and son both intentionally avoided. The events of the surprise attack and Aldred’s betrayal had eclipsed its prominence of an issue of matter, but it still lingered uneasy in the air between them. As Harold mustered up the courage to meet his father’s gaze, the torn feeling that stabbed at his heart stirred about again. He knew Father loved and cared about him, his response to Aldred’s attack and how he sat by Harold’s side during the first two days of recovery, and his concern for his condition now were proof of it. Yet Harold could not shake off the vicious words and accusations that Father had flung at the both of them. Were they proof of his disgust and lack of respect for his son’s romantic intentions, or were they just another symptom of a drunken rage that happened to worsen greatly after Mother’s death?

Harold was tempted to lure the cufant out into the light for the both of them to see. But with a gaze over at the flames rising over Hammerlocke, he knew that it was not the time to throw more kindling into the fire.

“As much as I want to protect you, I know that soon you will be the master of your own decisions. You are at the point in your life where your desires, beliefs, and will all weigh against my own wants and that I cannot let you be held back forever as this war rages around us. I will allow you to ride alongside me on your rillaboom on the condition that you do not engage in battle and promise to head back to the castle at the first sign of danger.” 

The unexpected concession sent Harold into a full bow. An odd mixture of humility, surprise, guilt, and tension bounced about inside him as he straightened up.

“Thank you Father! I am most grateful! I shall—“

The war horn’s call cut Harold off from his thoughts. King Roland pulled at the reins and headed towards the direction of where King Fergus and his forces gathered. Harold jumped onto Greenleaf’s back and with a shout they followed too.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Screams pierced the air. Figures of the civilians fleeing, soldiers passing by, bodies of the injured, dead, and dying all flashed before Harold in a blink of an eye. The heat from the burning buildings did nothing to break the indescribable cold that traveled on the smoke and caused the cobblestones below them to freeze. Harold wheezed. His hands chapped and red nestled in Greenleaf’s fur in an attempt to keep them warm. He glanced over at Father. Icicles hung on his beard and dangled from the points of his battle crown. King Roland rode at a steady pace, his posture tall and imposing. His voice boomed as it could over the commotion, informing the inhabitants to follow the guards and take to the hills for safety. Harold’s own voice, choked up from the smoke, echoed as it emphasized the need to follow his father’s directions. 

They pressed on. A guard’s shout sounded along with a point towards the hills. In front of them, a family leading small children by the hand darted past. To Harold’s left, a frail man struggled against the ice that tripped him each time he tried to get up on his feet. At the corner of the street, a group of people and water type pokemon were trying to extinguish the flames from a shop. A burnt hand waved in front of a window on the upper floor. It was followed by a reddened face and signed hair. The woman thrust her torso over the windowsill. Screamed that she was trapped, and no sooner than she spoke, purple energy constricted around her like a sandaconda surrounding its prey and yanked her back into the fire. 

Harold’s focus shifted ahead. He coughed and lifted his head to allow his voice to travel far. Rattled and hoarse, his words could hardly be heard above the din. Smoke blew into his face. With watery eyes and a stinging throat, Harold pushed up. Though he opened his mouth as wide as it could go, his jaw strained. A new shout rumbled about and surged up when a violent quake shook the street. The ice rose up, sheet-like and wave shaped. With a curl, it sent the bodies of those attempting to flee flying up and over the rooftops. Harold’s body jerked back. He clung to Greenleaf’s shoulders and squeezed his legs against the rillaboom’s sides to keep his balance. Greenleaf’s fists pummeled at the ice. Shards broke off then reformed to strike again.

“Harold!” King Roland clung tightly onto his mudsdale as it lashed its head about. Ice had covered its legs, freezing it into place and was creeping upward.

“Father!” Harold maneuvered Greenleaf the best he could to reach his father’s side. With one arm wrapped around Greenleaf the other reached out to pull him off the horse. Father’s arm swung. His body swayed as he was hoisted onto Greenleaf’s back. The mudsdale shrieked as the ice covered its belly. A swift turn, and father, son, and pokemon were able to reach a clear area that led into a side street.

“Son. Thank you,” King Roland said as he descended Greenleaf’s back.

As he touched ground, Harold looked back at the frozen street then over at the narrow path that marked the back of shops and houses. The destruction had rendered the area unrecognizable, and Harold struggled to recall the name of the street they were on.

“I think if we go ahead then left, we’ll reach Fisher street, and we’ll be able to get back to the castle,” he was out of breath.

“I worry that the castle will be next,” King Roland said with a glance in the direction Hammerlocke Castle would be. “We should go to the hills.

Harold nodded. The three of them kept close as they navigated the side street. It was eerily quiet save for the crackling of dying flames and the mixture of ash and snow that crunched under their feet. A glowing purple light indicated that Fisher street was near and they quickened their pace.

Not a living soul was to be seen on Fisher street, only glimpses of charred bodies in the gaps between the buildings that still stood. Those that had not been burnt down bore cracks in their foundation and its exterior was the color of coal. Debris scattered about on the wind. It made Harold glance up.

“Look!” He exclaimed.

Aldred was levitating in the air. A psychic shield protected him from the elements of his destruction. One hand gripped his staff while the other was extended out to monitor the magic that poured out from his fingertips. Not far away, wings of steel battered at Aldred’s aegislash and gengar. The two ghost type pokemon gave a ferocious cry and charged at Fergus’ corviknight. It lurched backwards. Fergus’ figure could be seen hanging on to dear life.

“Father!”

From the opposite end of the street in rushed Wynvin and Gwendolyn. They had lost their rapidashes and their cloaks were singed and displayed ragged holes. They didn’t appear to notice that Harold and King Roland were there. They kept their eyes on the battle above.

“Father let us help you!”

A pointed object swung at the air towards the aegislash. The tapered ends of its arm waved and then struck Fergus. He was knocked off the corviknight. The gengar and aegislash jumped onto corviknight and pulled at its wings to prevent it from rescuing its master.

Screams racked the air. King Fergus fell in the middle of the street. Immediately Harold, his father, and Greenleaf ran forward.

“ _Father!_ ”

“ _King Fergus!_ ”

King Fergus weakly lifted himself from the ground. Blood gushed down from his forehead. His helmet, cracked in the middle, fell with a clatter into two parts. His elbows gave and the leg from the side that Harold could not see dragged across the ground as the other attempted to move into a kneeling position. A grimace changed the course of the blood flow down King Fergus’ face. With a sharp shout, he tried again.

Both the twins and the Southern royals had reached the halfway mark to King Fergus when all of the sudden a hard, invisible barrier blocked their path. Its force pushed them back and Harold found himself landing against Greenleaf’s body somewhere close to the side street from where they came from. He scrambled to unsheathe his sword and got to his feet to see Aldred pull up King Fergus and restrain him by locking an arm against his chest. 

It was if time had slowed. Aldred’s eyes glowed a dark black. An icy gust blew. A glint of light bounced off the blade of a dagger. Aldred brought his arm up and slit King Fergus’ throat. Blood droplets spurt before falling to the ground as crimson colored hail. Aldred stepped back with a shove. The black in his eyes receded. The barrier lifted, Gwendolyn and Wynvin charged with their swords out. Aldred kept his emotionless gaze out. He waved a hand to cast a spell and disappeared into thin air just as the twins reached their father. 

Then time sped up. Harold felt the force of a jump. His arms wrapped around Wynvin to hold him back from chasing after Aldred. Wynvin lashed about with a wrathful cry. His leg slid back to kick the sword that lay on the ground towards him, but Harold was quicker. He spun Wynvin about and firmly but gently took hold of his upper arms.

“There’s nothing we can do! He’s **gone!** ”

Father knelt next to the body. His fingertips closed King Fergus’ bloodied eyelids. With a solemn look he bowed his head and removed his crown.

The tip of Gwendolyn’s blade grazed against the cobblestones. She stumbled about in a daze before the shock sent her to her feet. Her arms shot up, the sword clattered, and she let out a shrill, tortured wail. Hands gripped at the sides of her head, the plait of her braid violently swung behind her as her entire body collapsed to the ground. 

The sound of his sister’s cries made Wynvin freeze. His face, a blotchy red with hot tears streaming down his cheeks, he glanced over Harold’s shoulder to see King Roland and Harold’s rillaboom lift his father’s body from the ground.

“N-n-no!” He stuttered. “Tell me this isn’t happening! Please! **Please!** ”

Wynvin’s body became limp. Harold pulled Wynvin towards him. Wynvin’s arms snaked around him and his head nestled against his neck. His weight bore so heavily against him that Harold feared that they would both topple over.

“Father! **FATHER!** ”

Wynvin’s voice warped into an inconsolable shriek. The strength of Harold’s embrace tightened. Tears welled and began to fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A Note From The Author**  
>  I made a playlist to go along with the fic [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7Kq8V0dW8edF8a8yTkXgtC?si=fYHIfO02TTitVye5cBfxEQ)


	11. Gwendolyn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wynvin, the golden youth now king  
> Armed wit’ a crowne, corviknight, and a thousand knights  
> Ordered the armies of North and South to gather  
> And march into The Wilde and stop the men of Ice  
> In their bloody'd frost'd tracks  
>  _The Ballad Of The Darkest Days Lines 97-101_

Ash and dirt swirled about the surface of the tub. It spread out, turning the water a murky grey and cooling it to a lukewarm temperature. Gwendolyn’s knees were drawn up to her chest. Her hollow, blank gaze followed the direction of the ash floating about. A ripple splashed and Gwendolyn’s arms, heavy as a ship’s anchor, sunk from their locked position around her knees down to the depths of the tub. Elsewhere, the flames in the fireplace crackled. A gentle pressure from Shannon’s fingers worked at Gwendolyn’s scalp. The scent of rose essence wafted close and tickled her nose. To her right, Tord watched from his usual spot. His tail hung low and dragged on the floor. 

There came a knock at the chamber door. A lightness prickled at the top of Gwendolyn’s head as Shannon moved away. Out of the corner of Gwendolyn’s eye, she saw Shannon’s hands press into her apron as she passed. The glow of the fireplace’s light illuminated the bandages wrapped around her head, deepening them from an off white to a dull yellowish color. Shannon pulled back the curtain that separated the tub from the rest of the chamber. Tord perked up. Always eager to greet company, he followed Shannon. The fluttering ends of the curtain deterred him, to which he responded with a yap and a swipe. 

“Tea milady,” a servant called. 

“Thank you.” 

Shannon returned holding a tray with two cups of tea. She set it down on the table.

“It’s not a permanent fix but a good cup of tea is good for soothing the soul,” Shannon held the tea out to her.

The steam rising from the cup curled against Gwendolyn’s face before dissolving into droplets that trickled down her face. She lowered her head and pulled her knees in even closer so that her forehead rested in the center where they knocked against each other.

“You’re going to need to build up your energy. The next few days are going to be long ones,” Shannon tried a more direct approach.

Gwendolyn’s eyes, dried out, strained to release the grief that churned about inside her. Her throat, hoarse and shot, ached. So she turned her head away to refuse the tea.

“ _Oh Gwendolyn,_ ” Shannon’s voice came saddened and worried. 

Tord whimpered. Shannon’s presence drifted. Gwendolyn slid down against the back of the tub and submerged herself completely in the ice cold water.

________________________________________________________________________ 

The sound of rain pounding down from outside sharply echoed in Gwendolyn’s ears. Cool air blew from the gap between the rustling curtains. With a shiver, she adjusted her mourning shawl so that it rested over the sleeves of her nightgown. She raised her candle towards the entrance to the Great Hall. Its light, a dull orange, flickered before the draft surged, circled, and pierced through its dying flame. 

The tables and benches of the hall stretched out before her, setting down the path to Father’s casket that lay on the High Table podium. A tall, curved, figure blocked her view. It let out a low and mournful caw. Its right wing flapped. The left, propped up in a sling, sunk back down by its side.

“Corviknight?” 

Though Gwendolyn’s voice hardly rose above a whisper, the pokemon’s head turned. He cawed again and lowered his head as Gwendolyn reached its side. He struggled to lift and extend his injured wing out to his master’s daughter, so he stepped in so Gwendolyn could reach out and embrace him. Enveloped by soft down that poked through the outer layer of feathers, Gwendolyn felt comforted, like a baby rookidee chick would in its nest sleeping against the crook of its mother’s wings. After what felt like an eternity gazing out at the casket, Gwendolyn faced Corviknight and placed her hand on his chest. 

“Father never told me your real name,” she said as she stroked the bird’s feathers. “No one knew except for him and you. But if you shall allow, may I bestow you a new one?”

The corviknight cooed with a nod. Gwendolyn’s hand curved over the center of the corviknight’s chest. The vibration of his heartbeat, a pulsing force that struck hard like a sword’s steel, sent the tips of her fingers ghosting against his feathers. 

“Daithí. From now on my swift corviknight, you shall be known as Daithí.” 

Daithí’s leg bent with a jolt. With a sharp, affirming caw, he lowered his head into a bow. Gwendolyn tilted her head to meet his gaze.

“I know that I cannot be childish as I once was. I must not bemoan my fate, and run away from my duty. My kingdom needs me and I must take all that I have learned and witnessed and cultivate them into a weapon powerful enough to win this war. I must aim to be as wise and mighty like my father, and so my dear Daithí for you were his companion I beseech you to take me under your wing. Teach me your wisdom and strength to guide me through these troubled days until Galar forms. Will you?”

One single feather fell to the floor as Daithí raised his right wing upward. Moonlight streamed in from the windows of the Great Hall, illuminating the pokemon as he reached out and patted his wing against the top of Gwendolyn’s head, in a similar way his master once did a long time ago.

_____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The length of the Great Hall stretched out before Gwendolyn as she approached throne of bronze draped with Northern Blue. The ends of her mourning robes, as black as the night sky and woven from the finest threads of velvet fluttered as she took her seat. The heaviness of the pure gold that crowned her head threatened to weigh her down but Gwendolyn fought its pressure. She straightened herself upright, regal and tall and kept a serious gaze out as the First Court of the twin rulers was announced to the onlookers. Thus began the parade of petitioners, advisors, and informers with their news, complaints, worries, and woe. With a an occasional scratch behind Tord’s ear who snuggled up in her lap, at Daithí’s imposing figure behind her, and over at Wynvin beside her, she heard their pleas. There’d be a pause as her fingers bunched up against Tord’s fur, and her eyebrows furrowed as she pondered over how to phrase her answer. Wynvin was quicker to fill the silence. He addressed their concerns in an insightful and diplomatic manner. Out of the two, he’d always been more emphatic towards the needs of others and always tried to view matters from the speaker’s perspective. But for all of Wynvin’s skills on relating, he still was hasty. And that where was Gwendolyn shined. She assessed the points Wynvin overlooked and filled in the gaps with her direct and logical style of addressing matters. The two made a good team and it was a pity that their days ruling together were numbered. 

The toll from the Hammerlocke Bell Tower and the filter of orange rays into the hall signaled that evening had come and court was to close. The attending were starting to shuffle out and with a sigh of relief, Gwendolyn let herself slouch. Her legs, buttocks, and back felt stiff from hours of sitting in a rigid position and it took an effort for her to rise to her feet. She stretched and looked over at Wynvin who looked just as exhausted as she did. Below,Tord was busy amusing himself with Wynvin’s espurr and appletun.

_Look at him! Oh how I wish to be as free as a pokemon._ She thought as Tord jumped over the appletun’s body and landed on his front paws, with his tail rapidly wagging back and forth up in the air. She chuckled as he tried to sit up and regain his balance.

The guards by the entrance hurriedly stepped aside. In strode King Roland with Harold in tow. Wynvin automatically resumed his kingly stance. A quick brush of her hands together and Gwendolyn did the same. Behind them, Daithí cawed. The pokemon ceased their play. Without missing a beat they hurried back towards the corviknight and got into a line by his sides and watched the Southern royals approach. 

“Ah, your majesties. I had a feeling that you would still be here,” Roland addressed them with a curt bow of the head. 

“King Roland. How are the preparations for our march into The Wild?” Wynvin asked.

“Going well. The last of our troops have reached the city about mid afternoon. All we are waiting is for the signal to move forward.”

Gwendolyn found it odd that King Roland, the same man who labored extensively with her father over troop coordination and movements, would rush through the updates of the most important mission undertaken in the war. At first, annoyance stirred within at the thought that King Roland thought the two of them incompetent and more like children than rulers. She had an urge to snap back at him with a sarcastic remark on timing, but then she caught sight of Harold’s expression. It was filled with worry and—disappointment? Gwendolyn held her tongue and waited for someone to speak.

“That is good news,” Wynvin nodded.

“Very good news yes,” King Roland briefly clasped his hands together. “But I am here to discuss other matters that we have neglected in the wake of your father’s, _bless his soul_ , passing, and the attack.”

It was difficult to keep a blank face and not have her emotions betray her by contorting it into a scowl, yet Gwendolyn focused and directed her cool gaze right at the center of Roland’s face.

“After we win,” he started. “I think it would be best if we held the wedding—“

Gwendolyn’s fingers hooked into the sleeves of her robes. The air hissed between her teeth, her eyes bulged, and blood boiled.

_You come into **my** court, that I **preside** over, and you have the **gall** to suggest that I **marry** myself off to your **son?** _

But Gwendolyn knew better than to lash out. She raised her head high and let her gaze pierce through Roland’s skull.

“There will be no wedding,” she said in a serious tone. “It would be an _insult_ to my father’s memory to marry so soon after his passing.”

She saw Harold’s expression lighten. Shock washed over Roland.

“But—“ he started, taken aback by her words.

“We are the rulers now. You must respect our decisions,”Wynvin chimed in. His hand rested on Gwendolyn’s arm in a show of solidarity. 

“I may be of my father’s blood but that does not mean that I am his copy through and through,” Gwendolyn added. “I will not marry Harold.”

The threat of withholding aid from the Southern kingdom was in her hands, but Gwendolyn knew that there was no need to push him further. Roland had become quiet, perhaps thinking over the situation. She decided to wait. 

“But that does not mean that there will be no chance for our kingdoms to unite. Perhaps if we do win, there will be another wedding,” Wynvin lifted his hand from Gwendolyn’s arm. He stepped forward.

“What do you mean?” Roland answered in a tone of curious suspicion.

Wynvin stopped right in front of him. He knelt down as far as the crown on his head and the ends of his robes would allow him to and placed a hand over his heart.

“King Roland, I ask for your permission and blessing for your son, Harold’s hand in marriage. I promise that I will cherish him with all my heart, vow to protect him, and with him by my side, that we will rule Galar together.” 

Hope glimmered in Harold’s eyes. His hand shot out and grabbed his father’s shoulder. 

“Father, _please,_ ” he begged. 

An exasperated expression settled on Roland’s face. He reached up to slide Harold’s hand off and then glared down at Wynvin. 

“I will not listen to more nonsense,” King Roland said with a sigh. “Come Harold.”

Roland wasted no time leaving. However, his son lingered with his gaze upon his beloved. Disappointment welled in his eyes once more and it threatened to tide over before he quickly turned and followed suit before it could take on a liquid form.

___________________________________________________________________________

The light from the fireplace appeared to make the surface of the handheld mirror glitter. Keeping her arm at an angle, Gwendolyn held the mirror up so that she could make out most of her reflection. She watched Shannon’s figure behind her lift up the ends of her hair that fell down mid back.

“How much?” She asked.

“Short enough to fit into a helmet,” Gwendolyn answered.

She gazed over at the knapsack and Father’s sword that lay at the foot of the bed. Tord had made himself comfortable and was already fast asleep but Gwendolyn knew that with the nerves tumbling about inside her that she would not sleep a wink tonight and that by the time she could begin to drowse that it would already be dawn. 

Shannon ran her fingers through Gwendolyn’s long, blonde waves of hair one last time. Her thumb and pointer finger stretched out sideways to measure the amount of inches that she would be taking off. Gwendolyn saw Shannon reach over to the table and pick up a pair of scissors. 

“Alright,” Shannon said solemnly with a hint of the same worry that racked inside Gwendolyn. “Straighten your head and look out ahead.”

Gwendolyn did so. The scissors moved down, out, and then sideways as they made the first cut.

_Snip. Snip. Snip._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Professor Sonia’s Notes**  
>  When analyzing the three original sources for the ballad, Source A states that King Fergus’ corviknight is renamed Lonan (Blackbird). Source B, Daithí (Swiftness). And Source C, Steelclaw. Gwendolyn’s diary attests that the corviknight was given a new name, but does not say which one was the real one for she wrote: “like my father did before me, the new name of his corviknight is only to be known between the two of us and no one else, not even you diary.” 
> 
> **A Note From The Author**  
>  Gwendolyn’s haircut leaves her hair at around this [length](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/559079741227805960/)

**Author's Note:**

>  **Professor Sonia’s Note:**  
>  The Ballad Of The Darkest Days was first written down in the year 1000 CE (common era). Historians believe it to be comprised of three different versions of the ballad that circulated during Galar’s formative years. Legend has it that the earliest was composed by a bard of Queen Morgan’s court. 
> 
> **Author’s Note**  
>  I imagine Shannon of Cir to sound like Mrs. McCarthy from the British TV show Father Brown


End file.
